


The Sign of the Whore

by mycake



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Case Fic, Explicit Sexual Content, John-centric, M/M, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, Parental Lestrade, Plot, Rough Sex, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Experiments on John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycake/pseuds/mycake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has a separate diary which he keeps to himself. He uses it to compose his thoughts before he posts to his public blog. It features more intimate details about his evolving relationship with his madman flatmate. John writes of many of their cases including one in which Sherlock faces an updated version of London's most infamous serial killer, only to find everything is definitely not as it appears. "Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent." -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Virgin Fly

Sherlock was up to his normal antics, fluttering about the flat like a mad hatter; turning the sitting room upside down and going on and on about how I'd misplaced his keys. He'd placed them right there, on the coffee table, and since I was the only one that had access to the flat while his back was turned, it was only logical that I'd moved his keys just to spite him.

"They'd be on the rack if I were to move them." Which I hadn't, but I assured him anyway. "That's why we have a key rack, to put the keys on." I said for his future reference, knowing full well he wouldn't make use of it. Sherlock continued turning over odds and ends and looking in the most ridiculous of places for those bloody keys. "Did you try the key rack?"

"For God's sake! They aren't on your precious key rack! I would never-" Sherlock stopped mid sentence. I looked over to see him stuffing the keys in his pocket.

"Where were they, Sherlock?" I asked rather smugly, masking my grin with a sip of tea. Sherlock just grumbled a few obscenities and went back to work in the kitchen. He'd been rather testy of late, in every sense of the word. He'd just been hacking away at a dead fruit fly's genitalia for the better half of an hour, and had gotten nowhere with it.

His hands were trembling as he worked; he hadn't eaten all day, and complained of a nagging headache which he'd affectionately named 'John'. Of course, he refused to take anything to ease his discomfort, and worked diligently through the pain.

When he'd finally come to his grand climax he shouted out a large orgasmic "Oh!" Which usually meant _'John come into the kitchen at once, I'm being clever and I'm in need of an audience.'_ I put down my drink and paper and joined him at the kitchen table.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and I knew I was in for a long winded explanation.

" _Drosophila mauritiana_. At a glance it would appear to be its cosmopolitan relative, _Drosophila simulans._ Oh, but it is so obviously distinguishable by the narrow posterior lobes of the male genital arches." Of course, when Sherlock said obvious he normally meant it was only obvious to him. "Forensics overlooked it as _Drosophila melanogaster._ " I too thought it was just a dead fruit fly floating in a glass of orange juice. "Ah yes, _Drosophila mauritiana_ , endemic to the island nation of Mauritius." Sherlock was quick to jump up on to his feet. "Do you know what this means, John?"

"That the man who broke into Miss Lyon's flat most recently visited Mauritius?"

"Vienna, John, Vienna!" Sherlock shouted. Before I could bat an eyelash, Sherlock was half way out the door, his coat half on, and I was left fully bewildered in only my dressing gown. I hadn't the time to catch a breath let alone ask how in the hell he got Vienna, of all places, from butchering a deceased fly's bollocks.

It was half past four when Sherlock returned to Baker Street, caked in mud half way up his shins and missing his left shoe.

"University of Veterinary Medicine in Vienna. Recently published their first whole-genome sequence of the rare fruit fly. Ralph Moser, A graduate student of Viola Nolte's was on Holiday this past week." Sherlock toed off his right shoe and dropped it with a splat on the recently cleaned coffee table. "The fly was concealed in the lapel of his suit jacket. Given the age of the deceased, the fly must have been in the larval stage when it was smuggled into the country."

"Smuggled?" I asked grabbing the mop and bucket out of the corner of the kitchen. Sherlock removed his coat and threw it haphazardly on the sofa.

"Along with a hundred virgin females."

"Um." I could only hope he meant virgin flies.

"It was imperative that the female flies were virgin, or they'd be of no monetary value to Dr. Mayer, the intended consumer." Sherlock took one look at me and rolled his eyes and let out a berated and overly dramatic sigh. "For breeding John! Dr. Mayer is a geneticist. He hired Moser to steal the flies from his mentor's lab, sneak them past customs, and in return, promised to pay him double what they're worth."

"But…" I started mopping up the entryway before Mrs. Hudson could catch sight of it and have another conniption. Sherlock continued to strip out of his socks, which he left on the back of my chair.

"The fly in the glass wasn't the only male Moser brought over with him. He'd contaminated the batch and was out several hundred quid and a flight home."

"So he broke into the girl's flat for?"

"Collateral." Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt while he simultaneously shimmied out of his trousers. "Lyons worked under Dr. Mayer. She had, in her possession, a laptop with all the team's research data over the past three years; she had neglected to back-up the data on to an external hard drive for the past six months. Moser broke into the flat, stole the laptop, and threatened to erase Dr. Mayer's work if he didn't pay him triple what he owed him."

"So you traipsed about knee deep in muck… why?" At this point, he was stripped down to his pants, with his hands on his hips, with an 'isn't it obvious' look on his face. "You were able to get your hands on the laptop?" Sherlock nodded. "Moser's in police custody?" Sherlock nodded once more. "You know, the window is wide open." And with that Sherlock stripped himself of his underwear and stood stark naked in the middle of the front room with the door and all of the windows open for all the world to see his shockingly white bum. "How much'd we get for this case?"

Sherlock turned smoothly on his heels and made a hasty retreat to the bathroom and with that I had my answer.

"You know! If you keep taking up clients pro bono we'll be out on the street!" I heard the shower sputter into life. "Mrs. Hudson will have no qualms about throwing your pearly white ass out on to Baker Street, with no more than a tea towel to cover up with." Sherlock merely slapped his bare buttocks in response. Ever the exhibitionist, he continued to pace the hallway, deep in thought.

His face always made little twitches and his eyebrows contorted in an odd fashion when he was thinking hard about something. I dared not delve. I could tell he was in a mood or on the verge of one.

He would classify this case as an unanticipated 5; in retrospect, not worth his time and effort. He was taking on more and more boring cases of late and was teetering on the edge of an epic meltdown.

It started with pacing; then moved on to heavy sighs. From there it could branch and head down the 'throw everything that's not tethered down' path or the 'sulk like I'm a moody twelve year old' path. Then there was the roaring stage, followed by the 'no words, just grunts' stage. Then he'd go catatonic, which would allow me to get the hoovering done without him going barking mad over the noise. Such was life with the madman.

"Sherlock, the shower's running." I reminded him. He completely disregarded me as he returned to the front room. He wandered over to his chair and took a seat. He crossed his legs and started fiddling his fingers through the air as if he was playing an imaginary violin. He had his brows furrowed in concentration and his eyes fixed on a set point across the room.

"My keys."

"Yes?"

"They were on the hook."

"Yes." I said with a _'Where are you going with this?'_ tone.

"And you hadn't moved them?"

"Nope."

Sherlock hummed in response. I thought to myself, was he really that bored, that the case of the misplaced keys was so pressing he couldn't be bothered to shower? Sherlock was cat like in his grooming regiment; it was unlike him to pass up a hot shower. His bottom lip started to pout, ever so slightly. He let out a heavy sigh and started into a pitiful sulk. He sunk down into his chair.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock." I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "Hold up, let me phone Lestrade, tell him to tell the world to stop spinning so we can all throw a pity party for Sherlock." Sherlock worked up some misty eyes.

"You're mocking me." He looked at me like I'd just kicked his chemistry set or set fire to his favourite shirt.

"You're sulking naked. You've seriously reached a new low." I continued scrubbing the floors in a frail attempt at ignoring Sherlock's childish behaviour. After five minutes of silence I couldn't stand the sound of running water any longer and made way for the loo.

"Is it too much to ask for a good murder?" Sherlock asked the air. "I would even take a half decent one if that's all there was." I turned off the tap and sat on the edge of the tub.

"Maybe you'll get one for Christmas!" I shouted. "That is if you're good!" I near jumped out of my skin when Sherlock appeared at the doorway. He was absolutely ninja-like at times. He leaned his head against the door jam and let out another sigh.

"Oh, what's the point?" He said throwing his arms into the air. He walked over and stepped into the damp tub. He sat down in the middle and drew his knees up to his chin and let out another deep sigh.

"Would you like a bath instead?" I offered.

"So I can wallow in my own filth?" He snipped. "No, just turn on the shower." I drew the shower curtain half closed and turned on the shower head. Sherlock sat, moping under the water stream. Beads of water dripped off his hair. He stared at the tub's faucet. He had a sad frown painted on his face like a operatic clown.

I was faintly aware of how much his head pained him when he was bored. I assumed it was somewhat like the hazy dull ache one gets over summer when there's nothing remotely fun to do, only intensified to the Nth degree. I've been painfully bored before, but I have never carried on like Sherlock does.

I started washing his hair, hoping he'd take over because I never did it right. He continued to pout, and sigh, and mope. It wasn't like I was going to run out, commit a murder, come home, and shout, _'All right, Sherlock, I've just killed a man! Tell me how I did it!'_

I turned off the water and Sherlock lolled his head over in my direction and mumbled something unintelligible.

"You can't just wait around for people to start dropping like flies." I tried brushing his hair back from his forehead but he jerked away and let out a low growl. "Hey, don't take it out on me. Isn't my fault it's been a slow past couple of months."

"94." Sherlock said through clenched teeth. He, of course, was referring to the abysmally low homicide rate in the London area.

"Yes and it's only August. Maybe the holidays will bring the worst out of people. Come December I'm certain those numbers will skyrocket." I often feel like I've lost my touch with morality, especially when I'm reassuring a naked man that people are viciously murdered all the time! He needn't worry about case work ever running out.

It had been a dull season. Even I was disinterested in the majority of our potential clients. Sherlock was constantly badgered by major business conglomerates to spy on their competition, desperate housewives looking to catch their husbands in affairs to cover up their own affairs, and little old ladies that had completely lost their marbles and didn't know precisely why they needed a private detective. Even when something mildly interesting found its way on to Baker Street, it could only occupy Sherlock's attention for so long. He needed something to redirect his focus.

All I could get out was a, "Sher-" before he abruptly responded.

"No."

"But-"

"No." Sherlock shot up and out of the tub and stormed out of the room. I followed him with a towel in fear Mrs. Hudson would pop in on a moment's notice and see Sherlock in all his glory. Sherlock waved away the offer but thankfully retreated to his bedroom. He threw himself on the mattress, let out yet another sigh, and stared at the ceiling.

I sat on his bedside, not yet looking to end the conversation. "Right, if you're so smart, what was I going to suggest?" Sherlock ignored me and continued his staring contest with the ceiling. "We really should look into getting-"

"No!" Sherlock shouted. He groaned and rolled over on to his stomach. I pinched the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger in frustration.

"It'd give you something to do in your down time. Something constructive and far less… Sherlock!" By then he'd placed a pillow over his head and was trying to asphyxiate himself so he wouldn't have to listen to me. He'd once succeeded in knocking himself out, so I wasn't about to take my chances.

I straddled the man's backside, yanked the pillow from his grip, and held his arms firmly in place by the wrists. He gave a brief struggle before giving up completely and letting out a heavy sigh.

"Why not?" I asked, letting go of his wrists and taking a seat on his bum. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and looked solemnly at the headboard.

"Ankle." Of course he had to bring up the sour subject of the bull terrier that had once locked on to his ankle at uni and instilled his distrust in all canines. He likely expected me to drop the subject because the owner of this particular bull terrier had been Sherlock's only _friend_ during his two years at Oxford. It was the chance meeting with the man's dog and Sherlock's ankle that had led to them forming their _friendship._

Of course I am apt to believe their relationship was anything but platonic seeing as Sherlock referred to the encounter as a 'prosaic way of forming a friendship'. And since when did it matter if making friends lacked poetic beauty? In fact making friends should be completely unromantic. Should be.

I often worry about the man and his 'friends'.

"Yes, you've told me a thousand times over. However, we wouldn't get a vicious breed. I was thinking more along the lines of a bulldog. Perhaps a blood hound? You'd like that!" I gave Sherlock's shoulder a light nudge. "Help you with your cases."

"I haven't the time." Sherlock said with a low moan. He cradled his head in his hands.

"Yeah, when is old Mr. Two-First-Names coming into town?" I knew full well his name was Victor Trevor but I hated to speak his name out loud. It always left a sour taste in my mouth. I hadn't met the man but I swear I was ready to chin him already. Sherlock spoke all too highly of him. They'd grown apart since Victor's father's passing and recently they had gotten back into contact. Oh joy!

Victor had moved to India to take over his family's tea company. How brilliantly exotic, Sherlock must think. He had business in London and wanted to get together. _For tea._ I even had to convince Sherlock to take me along with him. He was going to go it alone! His logic: Victor Trevor isn't _my_ friends; therefore, why should I have tea with him?

"This weekend." I jolted slightly at the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"This weekend? You mean this upcoming weekend?"

"No, this weekend." Sherlock mumbled into the bedsheets.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock twisted at his hips to glare at me. "I mean _this_ weekend."

"Sherlock, it's Friday, do you mean-"

"Is it?" Sherlock asked truly unaware. His expression lifted. "Oh well… he should be in tonight then." Sherlock said nonchalantly, twisting his torso to lay flat once more.

"What!" I shouted in disbelief. I dismounted his derriere and knelt beside him. "You serious?"

"Of course." Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and looked at me as if my concerns were unwarranted.

"Tonight? You mean he's coming _here_ tonight?"

"Yes." Sherlock rolled on to his side and propped up his head on his hand. "I told him he could stay with us. I knew you wouldn't mind."

 _Wouldn't mind? Wouldn't mind!_ My mind shouted but all that came out of my mouth was an exacerbated, "Wh-ju-hu! Ah!" I was frightfully unprepared for visitors. There was mud on the coffee table for Christ's sake. Sherlock was naked! To say I was in a panic was an understatement.

Sherlock looked at me with amusement. I felt like tearing him limb from limb. I bolted off the bed and out of the room to make a feeble attempt at straightening up the flat for the unwanted company. Sherlock tried to follow but I snapped my fingers at him and pointed him in the direction of his room. He rolled his eyes and let out a huff.

I spent a good two hours scouring the flat from top to bottom before Sherlock waltzed out of his room, buttoning up the cuffs of his shirt's sleeves. I gave him my best death glare before the door bell rang. I was a sweaty mess and hadn't had a proper shave in days. I debated hiding away until the weekend was over.

Sherlock gave me a grin and hurried down the stairs to answer the door. I gritted my teeth. He'd never answer the door otherwise. I was starting to feel sick to my stomach. I wringed my hands as I waited on the top step. When Sherlock opened the door I couldn't look, I walked right back into the flat while Sherlock's back was turned and took a seat in my chair.

I bit at my thumbnail and breathed uneasily. I could only hope the man was hideously disfigured, fat, had a glass eye, anything! Of course not. I regretfully turned as the two amiable fellows entered the flat. I swallowed my panic and stood up to assert myself.

I looked up at the beautiful man. Of course he was taller, of course he had a moustache, and of course he was blond and thin and looked like a young James Wilby. I groaned on the inside but kept my composure. I offered my hand first.

"Doctor John Watson." Emphasis on the doctor.

"Victor Trevor." _Of course I know who you are you prat._

"Ah, yes." Sherlock said reaching for Victor's bag. Their fingers brushed against each other briefly before Victor released his bag and in that moment I wished my eyes could shoot daggers. "Let me show you to your room." Sherlock was being accommodating. I could feel my eye twitching. He led Victor to his room and left him to settle in. I grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and pulled him into the kitchen for a private word.

"And where are you planning on sleeping?" Sherlock shrugged in response. "The upstairs room is a war zone! You could have at least given me a day's notice."

"You _were_ home all day." He pointed out.

"Yes, but I wasn't expecting company!"

Sherlock looked over the kitchen and at the floors. "Hm." He hummed softly. "I must say, I'm surprised at you."

"Oh shut up, Sherlock. You haven't the slightest idea." Having another man encroach on my territory was nerve wracking. I would never pull a thing like this on Sherlock and he knew it.

"Haven't I?" Sherlock asked lifting an eyebrow.

"No, you haven't. Now stop being… so…" I flailed my arms in his general direction to convey my mute point.

"Arrogant?" He offered.

"Cocky." The corner of Sherlock's lip twitched into a brief smirk at my off-handed comment.

"Gin?"

"We haven't any."

"You could pop off to the store, give us some alone time." Sherlock raised his eyebrows suggestively.

"I have no reservations about chining you."

"Now, now, John." Sherlock patted my head and my lip curled into a snarl. "Down boy." He said with a wicked smile. I could only hope his mockery was a sign that he wasn't going to try anything stupid to jeopardize our relationship. He pulled out a crisp folded twenty and held it between his two fingers. "Do be a dear."

I snatched the note from his hand. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. Fine, he could have his alone time with his friend. He could see what I cared.

When I returned to Baker Street with the gin and tonic water, the two were chattering away like hens in a coop. I could even hear laughter from the stairwell. Sherlock's laughter.

I clenched the bag tightly in my fist and walked straight into the kitchen. Sherlock popped up from his chair and took the bag off my hands. "Here, allow me." He started playing bar tender and I debated retreating to the upstairs bedroom. I took a seat on the sofa, as far as I could from Victor who glanced over at me several times as he spoke with Sherlock.

I paid no attention to what they were saying and instead started composing a text.

 **He's here.** I stared at Victor as I pressed send. I was immediately met with a ping.

 **And?** I knew Greg had nothing better to do on a Friday night.

 **I think I've just met my doppelganger.** I didn't feel like mentioning he was my far more attractive doppelganger.

 **Could be. Maybe he just upgrades models every ten years or so.** I smiled at Greg's comment. I wished I actually felt like an upgrade from Victor Trevor.

Sherlock handed me a drink and I sorrowfully put the phone to rest on the coffee table. He took a seat next to me and I felt a small flutter of hope. Victor angled the chair to get a better look of us two. I started to feel a bit shameful for the way I was thinking about the man. I hadn't really given him the chance. However his gaze was fixated on Sherlock and I couldn't help but feel at least a little resentful.

Sherlock had three people that he'd ever called his friend. Me, Greg, and this guy. DI Lestrade set him on the straight and narrow and gave him a new purpose in life and while Sherlock would never admit it, he was forever grateful. I wasn't even remotely threatened by Greg but Victor was unknown territory. He was everything I wasn't and it showed.

Sherlock would hang on his every word when he spoke. Victor was interesting, exotic, familiar but new. Even his name was more interesting than mine. I was just the nagging housekeeper. A personal assistant.

I gulped down my drink far too quickly and found myself becoming light headed. I was slightly more relaxed with their back and forth banter, however I desperately wanted Sherlock's attention. My hand found its way to Sherlock's thigh. He never once broke stride in his conversation with Victor as he scooted away from my reach and went to stand.

He fixed another round of drinks. I immediately noticed mine was heavy on the tonic. He wasn't about to get away with cutting me off so soon. When his attention was diverted I swapped his drink with mine and finished it off before he had the chance to say 'boo'.

I was quite content with our little game. Sherlock didn't let it show but I was trying his patience. I rested my elbow on the arm rest, held my head up with the palm of my hand and grinned at him smugly. I debated stretching my legs out to rest on his lap as he'd done to me, too many times before, when I had company over.

I knew I was flirting with disaster and trudging on a mine field where Sherlock and his old mate were concerned. I wasn't sure what would set him off, but I was willing to press all of his buttons to illicit a response.

Their talk about fencing, boxing, chemistry, and their days at uni bored me greatly. I actively and covertly tried to close the gap between us. Sherlock edged away until there was nowhere to run. I expected him to lash out like a cornered animal; instead he extended an arm and draped it over my shoulder. He crossed his long legs, settling in, and I couldn't hold back a content grin.

However, when Victor excused himself to use the facilities, Sherlock was quick to chide me on my behaviour.

"I expect better of you!" He scowled.

"You do now?" I chuckled drunkenly. If looks could kill I wouldn't be writing this now. I returned Sherlock's fierce glare. When Victor returned I excused myself from their dull conversation and headed upstairs to lie awake, writhing with anger.

How could I sleep with them cackling downstairs? I had never heard Sherlock so happy. We laughed together but we never prattled on until the wee hours of the morning. It was near two in the morning before Sherlock came rolling into bed, sloshed and grinning ear to ear. I curled up on the edge of the bed and kept my back turned to him.

I'd had to move a mountain of boxes and knick knacks to get to the bed in the first place. I hadn't used the bed in ages. It was a few inches shy of a full sized bed, perfect for a bachelor, but abysmal to share.

Sherlock coughed and I could smell the stale stench of tobacco smoke on his breath. I was more than infuriated with the man. When he reached out to draw me closer I dug my elbow in his ribs. He was insistent though and managed to wrestle me into a reversed embrace. He nuzzled into the nape of my neck and whispered everything but an apology.

He nipped and kissed at my shoulder, and pleaded for more with his hips. I wasn't giving in that night. I kept my resolve and he drifted off with his face pressed against my back.

I woke with the rising sun. I remembered my phone on the coffee table and wrenched myself from Sherlock's death grip. He rolled over and reached out sadly brushing his finger tips on the pocket of my pyjama bottoms as I made my way out of the room.

I was praying Victor wouldn't be up and about but there he was in our front room, tying his tie and buffing his shoes for his daylong meeting. I wished him the best of luck and he left in a hurry, much to my delight. I reached for my phone and was taken aback by the amount of texts I had received. Greg had obviously had a long night.

He was called in at four in the morning for a murder investigation in Whitechapel. He had sent me a long list of details along with photos. Woman, aged forty-three, five foot two inches, found on Durward Street at 3.40 AM. Her throat was slit twice, her abdomen mutilated with one deep jagged wound and several smaller incisions across it.

I checked my watch. _6.15_. Greg had only just sent a text three minutes prior. I typed a response excitedly and rushed upstairs to inform Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Murder!" I yelled with a new found energy. Sherlock drew the blanket up over his head and rolled away. I dressed quickly. "Woman, aged forty-three, stab wounds to the abdomen, hardly any blood at the crime scene, come on Sherlock!" I nudged him.

"Not interested." Sherlock groaned. "Wh-How?" I asked exacerbated. I had already donned my shooting jacket and half had my laces tied, I was ready for some excitement and Sherlock wanted to sleep in? I wasn't having it. "Get up!" I pulled his light frame out of the bed and on to the floor; he wavered on his feet, and pouted. His hair was in disarray and he hadn't bothered to change out of his day old clothes. I handed him his Belstaff coat and we were off.

On the cab ride I let Sherlock catch some much needed sleep on my shoulder but the moment we reached the pitted side street I shook him awake. Police cars lined the street and blocked off the view of the crime scene. We were near some run down flats coated in graffiti, rubbish spilled out of bins and littered the streets, and the air smelled heavily of smog due to the construction cranes that loomed in the distance. Overall, it wasn't the most pleasant of places to be murdered.

We were let under the blue tape and were instantly greeted with the gruesome sight. I was grateful that I'd skipped my breakfast when I saw the flies buzzing about, crawling into the wounds of the deceased. Sherlock gave the woman a half-hearted look. He even nudged her foot with his own. Sherlock yawned like a lion and let out a grunt.

I noticed the bruising on the woman's face. The marks were circular, perhaps from the pressure of finger tips. She appeared to be missing some teeth, five in total. Under the jaw line, immediately below the ear, was an incision that ran roughly four inches across the throat. Directly beneath it was a circular incision that was far deeper; down to the vertebrae. There was a jagged deep wound that ran the length of the lower abdomen. She had been stabbed on the right side several times, in a downward motion.

Greg had mentioned there wasn't much blood, only about a half a pint, if that. The severity of the wounds would suggest that blood loss would have been more significant. It appeared that the blood had congealed and soaked the woman's hair and clothes, which would explain why there was so little of it. Therefore, it was likely she was killed on location, with a quick cut to the throat and the abdominal injuries were inflicted post-mortem.

Sherlock continued to yawn loudly and stretch. He'd obviously caught on to something. He truly wasn't interested. Greg made his way over and asked the question that was on everyone's mind, "Well?"

"Eighth of September. 5.30 AM. 29 Hanbury Street." Before Greg could respond Sherlock started walking away.

"And what'm I supposed to find on Hanbury Street?" Greg asked with a look of discomfort.

"Jack the Ripper of course." Sherlock said with a malicious grin.


	2. Killer Pandas

The days leading up to my forty-second birthday I fell into a slight depression. I wasn't particularly dreading my upcoming birthday, but I did feel like an odd gloom had settled into my consciousness and had no promises of lifting. I tried approaching Sherlock with my feelings, and looking back on it, it was a rather foolish thing to do.

He brushed it off as declining testosterone levels and while I felt it was highly inconsiderate of him to say so: I did feel he hit the nail on the head. I had been noticing a decrease in my masculinity of late. It is hardly fair to blame it all on Sherlock, but he had a way of destroying my self-confidence and diminishing my masculine attributes.

I was beginning to feel domesticated. I could follow Sherlock with a mop and bucket 24/7 and still never keep up with the cleaning. Why did I even care? I came to the realisation that I really didn't. It was only recently that I had started neurotically picking up after him. So, I chose not to care.

That resolution lasted half a day before the flat looked like a bomb went off. When I couldn't take another moment of Sherlock's complete lack of respect, I stormed out of the flat and headed straight for the Globe (the pub not the theatre).

I didn't want it to show that I was on my own. It's a terrible thing, drinking alone, one stinks of desperation. It wasn't as if I was going to attract attention. Women were generally disinterested, unless I made the first move and men weren't even remotely interested in me. I sighed into my third pint.

I didn't want anyone else but I desperately craved attention. Sherlock was far too busy to deal with me and my sudden onset of emotions. I had always had the normal human range of emotions: happy, sad, angry, et cetera. Now all my emotions seemed to mix together and the reaction was volatile.

Perhaps I was having an acute oxytocin overdose. It made me wonder if men would express maternal behaviour if they were exposed to high enough levels. I was struck with panic at the thought of Sherlock drugging my morning coffee… again.

Maybe my sudden mood swings were due to one of his experiments. After my fourth pint I was mildly impaired and ready to confront Sherlock. I was convinced he'd had a hand in making me feel like shit, either directly or indirectly.

I had never been sexually attracted to another man before, never felt such a strong bond between me and my partner, and I certainly had never been so hopelessly needy.

The accusations started the moment I swung open the door.

"You've been drugging me!" I shouted. Sherlock turned from his work for a moment, took one good look at me, and returned to his Petri dish. He held an eyedropper above the dish, took off the top, and let a small drop fall on the plate. The drop fizzed and bubbled at it spread on the media. Sherlock let another drop fall before I shouted at him, "You idiot! It's sheep's blood agar! Of course it has catalase!" Sherlock looked up at me. I could see I had upset him.

I was hit with a tremendous guilt. I scrubbed my face with my hands and let out a heavy sigh. "Sorry, I didn't mean-"

"I wasn't testing for catalase." Sherlock said sheepishly. His ears flushed red as they usually did when he was embarrassed. I truly felt like the worst person on earth.

He had been investigating the murder of two parents. The only suspects being a thirteen year boy and his kid sister. All signs pointed to the brother being the perpetrator but Sherlock wasn't swayed. The boy would be tried as an adult if he was found guilty.

The father, a police officer with the Met, had on his person a standard issue Glock 17. This of course would feed fuel to the fire of gun politics in the UK; things were tight enough as it was. It was general consensus that police officers shouldn't be armed, but this man was part of the select few entrusted with a firearm and tragically it was used to take his and his wife's lives.

I just couldn't bring myself to believe a six year old girl, just shy of three stones weight, would have the ability and know-how to fire a gun at her parents. Not to mention a motive.

The boy was a delinquent at school, had been truant at least four times at the start of the quarter, and was constantly bickering with his parents. It was obviously him. Or was it?

"Pandas." Sherlock said placing the lid on the dish once more. He steepled his fingers and brought them to his chin.

"Pandas?" I repeated.

"Yes, John."

"Pandas are what killed the girl's parents?"

"No, but it did provide a motive for the little girl."

"She… killed her parents… because of pandas?" I asked highly confused.

"Yes." Sherlock said removing his fingers from his chin and placing them on the table.

"Pandas." I said with a nod. I smacked my lips together. "Nope… not getting it." Sherlock furrowed his brows in concern.

"What's not to get? Look at her handwriting." He pushed over two pieces of paper with a child's handwriting on them. One looked significantly sloppier than the other. "This sample was from this past school year, the next, more recent. She shows signs of developmental regression and deterioration in her performance at school. You may have also noticed her Tourette's like tics. Constantly scrubbing her nose, unable to sit still for more than a minute's time-"

"She is six. It is common for kids her age."

"Yes but the sudden onset is key."

"The sudden onset of what?"

"Pandas!" Sherlock bellowed.

"What does that have to do with anything?" I shouted back.

"P.A.N.D.A.S." Sherlock spelled.

"Yes, I know how to spell bloody pandas!"

"Pediatric Autoimmune Neuropsychiatric Disorders Associated with Streptococcal infections."

"Oh." I said with revelation. "Pediatric Auto-immuno… Neuro… what you said." Sherlock cracked a smile.

"You thought I meant the little black and white bears."

"I thought you meant the little black and white bears." We both burst out in laughter. My belly ached and my eyes started to water. "Killer pandas, who would have ever thought?" It felt good to finally have a laugh with my best friend.

He showed me the blood agar plate. The colony had completely lysed the red blood cells, leaving the surrounding area yellow and semi-transparent. The evident signs of beta-hemolysis, typical of Group A Strep infections, in this case _Streptococcal pharyngitis._

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh.

"What's the matter? You've solved it." I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"The evidence is hardly insurmountable. A documented case, this severe, doesn't exist. It's a weak argument. Half of paediatricians don't even believe in PANDAS. It won't do any good."

"Could have the little girl testify."

"Retrograde amnesia. The concussion she suffered falling off the chair was enough to muddle her memories of the evening." The police believed the event was sparked by her brother pushing his sister off the chair, causing a heated argument with his parents, which escalated to the point where he fired two shots at them, both hitting their mark, however only one of the bullets was recovered.

"Could submit her to a psychiatric evaluation."

"It'd be a start."

"One thing I don't understand." Well there was a multitude of things I didn't understand about the case, but this seemed the most pressing. "How did such a little girl fire off two shots?"

"She didn't. Only one shot was fired."

"That's impossible."

"Improbable." He corrected. "What is impossible is the girl having fired two shots."

"It would explain the cartridge case jammed in the ejection port. She stovepiped it. It would make sense given her size. The recoil would have caused her to slip off the chair. It's a million in one shot though."

"John, get me a pig." Sherlock said suddenly.

"What?" "A pig, John! Take my card. I need it whole. Organs and all."

"Everything but the squeal?"

"Precisely."

And like that, I was off to market, to market, to buy a fat pig, home again, home again to shoot it with a sig (I really do apologise for the sad reference to a nursery rhyme). Sherlock offered little help getting the pig carcass up the stairs. Sherlock was, however, rather impressed that I'd managed to obtain one on such short notice.

"You'd be surprised what you can get in Chinatown. Picked up a bootleg copy of the third Iron Man as well. Could watch it tonight, you know, after we're done mutilating this pig." Sherlock gave the idea an impartial shrug as he started sawing away at the pig's head. "Sherlock, not on the carpet!" I whined.

"The carpet's red." He said impertinently. We managed to prop the head up, suspended six feet off the ground, and angled the body where the mother would have been standing. Sherlock measured the distances a second time and told me to take aim. I lined up the shot, sucked in a deep breath, and on the exhale pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit the pig's head right between the eyes. Sherlock walked to the other side and inspected the damage. "Well?" I asked after a long silence.

"Well what?" He looked at me as if I had brought him out of a daydream.

"Did it go through?"

Sherlock nodded. I was worried the skull would be too thick. I walked over to look at the back of the pig's head.

"Nice shot." Sherlock said with a hum.

"Where's the bullet?" We both turned to look at the body. "Oh that isn't bloody fair." Sherlock walked over to the bullet hole in the sofa. "Shit!"

"Inch and a half off." Sherlock said with a sigh. "A six year old is a better shot than I am." I said with a laugh. "Set it up again."

"Can't." Sherlock said plainly.

"You serious?" I groaned. He sent me off again to get a fresh head. I bought two extra just in case. By the end of the day's shopping I'd spent five hundred pounds on pork alone.

On the second go, I grazed the body and I worried Sherlock would send me out to get another one. He merely stopped filming with his mobile and set up another head. Third time's the charm. I managed to sink the shot through the thin of the pig's skull and land a fatal blow on the body. By then Mrs. Hudson had phoned DI Lestrade who brought two officers in full riot gear with him.

Sherlock showed him the video along with the pig. He seemed less than convinced.

"It's one explanation." Greg said ruefully. Sherlock was flustered to say the least. He threw a whirlwind of information, evidence, facts and figures. He even drew it out on paper and Greg still wasn't buying it. Greg was equally confused with the pandas, until I explained it for him. "Listen, I know you two put a lot of effort into this, shooting a dead pig n' all, but seriously. It's not exactly irrefutable evidence."

Sherlock was steaming with anger at this point. He'd never been met with such resistance from Greg ever; I was beginning to wonder about the man myself. Sherlock went into mind palace mode and we were dismissed from the mock crime scene. I sat on the bottom step while Greg paced the landing. I inquired about his lack of faith in Sherlock's deductions.

He gave me an odd look as if I should have known something. "S'nothing." He said putting his hands on his hips.

"Are you two having a row?" Greg rolled his neck and let out a heavy sigh. "Look, it's nothing personal. I know you two lads are…" He stopped. "Just… could you get him to give me something? Anyfin on this Ripper case. We're at our wit's end, chief's been crawling up my arse ever since." He let his arms drop. "Please, I'm desperate. We all are." He looked at me with sorrowful eyes. At times he reminded me of a droopy bloodhound. Sherlock called us back in.

"The boy couldn't have done it." Sherlock said assertively. "The girl constantly scrubs her nose, yes?" Greg nodded. "Tell Anderson to run on a culture off the gun's trigger. Fomites from _Streptococcus pharyngitis_ can live on dry surfaces for months. Is that definitive enough for you, Inspector?" Sherlock sneered. Greg finally seemed to be satisfied.

"All right. That should be enough." He looked at the floor. "Thanks." Greg let out a sigh. "Look, Sherlock would you-"

"Good day, Inspector." He said shooing Greg out the door.

"Sherlock." He said with a whine as Sherlock started closing the door. "We've got nothing!"

"I know." Sherlock grinned broadly. "Eighth of September, see you then, ta, ta." He shut the door in Greg's face and turned the lock. Sherlock let out a sigh. "When will he ever take a hint?" He said with a grunt. "My God, the man's insatiable." Sherlock plopped down on the sofa, right next to the pig corpse, and picked up the newspaper. "What's for dinner?" He crossed his legs and shifted to get comfortable.

"Pork?"

"Hm. I was more in the mood for fish." He said flipping through the paper. "Haddock sounds nice. Look at that, ten pounds a kilo. Real good price."

"Sherlock… you're sitting next to a hundred kilos of meat." Sherlock looked at the headless pig as if he hadn't noticed it before. "I'm not letting it go to waste."

"I'm really not that hungry." Sherlock smiled brightly at the decapitated hog. "We could invite Mycroft over. Though I'm not certain he'd be willing to share." Sherlock patted the pig's belly. "Yes, that's what we'll do."

"You're inviting your brother over?"

"No, I'll have the pig sent over to him, as a little present." He gave an impish shrug. "Don't brothers do that? Give each other gifts?"

"You're going to send your brother a dead pig?" I shook my head. "You must really have a death wish."

"Oh, any inferences he draws from it are purely coincidental." Sherlock said with a wicked grin.

The eve of my birthday I was tidying up the sitting room when there came a knocking at the door. Regretfully I opened it and five of Mycroft's men filed in with several large boxes with large print on the sides: _Naples, Italy._ _Keep Refrigerated._ I looked at the label and gritted my teeth.

Sherlock waltzed out of his room some time later and noticed the boxes. "What's this?" He asked lifting his eyebrows.

"Donkey, Sherlock. 275 kilos of it." I read the note attached to the top box. "To Sherlock, thank you ever so much for the lovely butcher's hog. Please accept this as a token of my appreciation M.H." I crumbled up the note and threw it at him. "I told you! You are such an ass!"


	3. Killer in Heels

I realize it isn't practical to expect anything too special for my birthday, living with Sherlock Holmes, but I must say I wasn't exactly appreciating standing in a freezing cold car park for two hours while he went over every fine detail on the Ripper's second victim.

He was relentlessly chiding Greg for allowing it to happen.

"Officers were posted at every entrance! For God's sake Sherlock, the woman's body just appeared out of thin air!"

"CCTV?"

"Cut the wires."

Sherlock let out an aggravated growl. He leaned in close. "What have you left for me?" He asked the dead woman. Smith, aged 48, five foot, face swollen, throat dissevered, disembowelled, part of the uterus removed with surgical precision. Along with the body they found two pills, a torn envelope with an old army emblem, a comb, and a piece of white fabric.

"Same blade?" I asked Sherlock, kneeling close to him for a bit of warmth but not too close to attract attention.

"Of course. 7 inches. Incisions run left to right, made with the left hand."

"Prostitute?"

Sherlock took a moment to look at the heel of her foot. "Yes." He answered as he scanned the lower abdomen once more. "Asphyxiated with a cloth handkerchief." He looked at her swollen protruding tongue. He looked as if he was going to poke it, as he inched closer with his forefinger. I stared at him in disbelief.

I jumped when Greg tapped on my shoulder. "John, need a word with Sherlock." I was quickly and eagerly ushered away by Sgt. Donovan.

"Take it he didn't remember." She said with a smug grin.

"He remembered." Sherlock remembered my birthday indeed; he had even acknowledged it that morning. He had said ' _It's your birthday.'_ I said ' _Yep'_ and then he continued drinking his tea without any further mention of the matter. He never wished me a happy birthday, he didn't want to get my expectations up too high, I think.

It was a good ten degrees cooler in the parking structure. I shivered from head to toe. I looked back to see Greg reassuring Sherlock who looked like he was primed to explode. I prayed he'd keep his calm.

He didn't.

His voice boomed and echoed in the hollow car park. I had to jump in before he clobbered the man.

"Sherlock!" I shouted, positioning myself between him and Greg.

Sherlock bared his teeth at Greg and hissed, "It is your fault, yours alone, that this woman lies here dead." He poked a finger into the DI's chest. "I refuse to help you any further if you continue to even consider me suspect. You, of all people, should know-"

"I didn't, I was just relaying the information, honest." Greg said holding up his hands.

"Sherlock, what's this about?"

"Five thirty, witness last saw the woman alive with a man, just outside the car park." Greg looked down at his feet. "Says he was real tall, had on a deer-stalker cap and dark overcoat."

"Yeah, well Sherlock has at least three alibis. Myself, Mrs. Hudson, and the cabbie. Couldn't have been him." I said crossing my arms. "So there."

"I know it wasn't Sherlock, for Christ's sake." Greg rubbed his forehead with his hand. "You know people talk. The media n' all." Sherlock let out a groan.

"Yes, the modern day Jack the Ripper! I can see it now." Sherlock looked thoroughly disgusted. "God, is there nothing new under the sun? It has all been done before!"

"You know how Londoners are about these types of cases." Greg said with a shrug.

"What would be your advice to them then? Don't be a prostitute?" Sherlock sneered.

"Come now, I just want this case solved. 'Fore it gets too much attention. This shit's media gold n' you know it."

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Thirtieth of September. I suggest you brush up on the canonical five. There will be two murders, within forty-five minutes of one another. I'll text you the precise coordinates. Don't let her slip in unnoticed again."

Greg furrowed his eyebrows. "Her?"

"The murderer, your beloved Jack the Ripper." Sherlock said with a huff. Anderson appeared out of the shadows to pipe up.

"Now see here." He said in his persistent snide tone. "I've measured the footprints left by the Ripper. You tell me, what woman has a size fourteen shoe?"

"One with big feet." Sherlock grabbed the police tape, walked under it, and put it down as a sort of barrier between him and Anderson. I rolled my eyes and joined him on the other side of the tape.

We walked out side by side. "Do you have to be so dramatic?" I asked when we were outside of earshot of Greg and Anderson. Sherlock held his nose in the air as he started outpacing me.

"Why the nerve of that man." Sherlock hissed as we hit the street.

"Which one?" He continued to storm away in a huff. I checked my watch, it was near nine in the morning, and all I wanted to do was crawl back into bed.

We arrived at Baker Street half past nine. Sherlock busied himself with destroying the flat while I headed to his bedroom. I fell onto the plush pillows and let out a content sigh. I didn't care if I let my birthday slip away from me. It was my day to do with what I pleased.

I had just started to drift off when Sherlock burst in. "John, I need you!" He bellowed trying to wrench me from the bed by my hips.

"Sherlock!" I shrieked with an indignant squeak.

We had discussed in great detail the importance of consent and there Sherlock was, bent over me, pinning me to the bed, shouting, "Come on, John, I need you!" His fingers dug into my hips, he kept trying to pry me up on to my knees. I kicked and squirmed, trying to get out of his vice grip, but instead he fell on to me. "Damn it John, I need you now!"

"Sherlock, stop." My breath was ragged from the struggle.

"John, get up." He pulled at my shirt and I started sliding off the bed.

"No! Jesus Christ Sherlock, I don't care if you're my partner. You can't just come in here and take me whenever you damn well please!" Sherlock grabbed me by my elbows and pulled me up.

"Get dressed!" He shouted. I stopped struggling.

"What?" He let go of my arms.

"We're going out. You'll need your coat." He said calmly. I turned to look at him.

"What?"

"I need you to come with me. Need to visit the shoe shop and I could use your input." I stared at him and just blinked.

"You could have said that in the first place." Sherlock titled his head to one side and lifted an eyebrow. "Fine, I'll come with. Just promise, we can do something for my birthday." Sherlock gave a shrug. "I'm serious. I just want to do something special, just this once; then you can go back into annoying dick mode for the rest of the year." Sherlock stuck out a hand and I shook it gladly.

After a brisk walk to Chiltern Street we walked into the shop and I instantly noticed something amiss. "Sherlock... these are all women's shoes." I said with a whisper. A sales attendant greeted us tentatively.

"May I help you, gentleman?"

"You wouldn't happen to have anything in a women's size eleven would you?"

"Sorry sir, all we carry up to is a woman's ten." Sherlock glanced down at my feet. One of his eyebrows twitched up. His eyes met mine and the corners of his lips curled into a malicious grin.

We walked out with a pair of red velvet pumps in hand along with several stares from the store's employees.

"Some birthday present." I mumbled. We returned to the flat and I headed straight for the bedroom. Sherlock caught me by the forearm and motioned towards the bag I had left at the front door.

Soon I was clad in high heels, with my jeans turned up at the ankles. I had my arms crossed and my teeth clenched. The extra two inches made it so I could glare more directly into Sherlock eyes. I stood with my backside against the kitchen counter. Sherlock had a wicked grin plastered on his face.

"May I ask why I'm wearing ladies shoes?"

"In good time, John." Sherlock said turning to open the silverware drawer. He pulled out a long rusted over knife. "It's an amputation knife John. From the American Civil War. Comes from a post mortem surgical set. And that's not rust, John." He brought it closer, his hand clenched tightly around the handle. "It's stained with blood. The blood of soldiers, John."

My heart felt like it dropped through my butt. My breath hitched in my throat. I felt sweat start to collect on the palms of my hands. Sherlock was dangerously close with the knife. My knees started to shake. He had a murderous look in his eyes. "Sherlock?" I said with quaking fear. I looked back and forth between his eyes and the knife.

Sherlock lunged forward and I bolted out of the kitchen, through the front door, down the stairs, and out on to Baker Street. I could hear Sherlock laughing like a maniac through the open window. I held on to the pay-to-park machine and caught my breath.

"See John! A man is perfectly capable of running in high heels! It was a cross-dresser that killed Ms. Clemens!" He shouted out the window. He'd been on the case of the _'Killer in Heels'_ for a solid week now. I thought he'd given up when he'd taken on the _Killer Pandas_. Apparently not.

Woman, aged sixty, killed outside her family home in West Sussex. Witnesses saw a woman, dressed in heels and a short skirt, fleeing the scene.

I grimaced and held my chest; my heart was still racing a mile a minute. I non-discreetly flipped Sherlock off. Sherlock came down the stairs, sans knife, and continued to grin broadly. "Add two inches height to the night time bar tender at the Cat Inn and we have our murderer. Brilliant!" Sherlock gave me a hard slap on the shoulder. I stumbled backwards, the heel of my right shoe caught the kerb.

There was a loud pop followed by a searing pain. My knee collided with the pavement and I let out a loud yelp. Mrs. Hudson was first on the scene to coo and fawn over me.

"No, no. I've got him." Sherlock said shooing her away. He scooped me up into his arms.

"I hate you, Sherlock Holmes. God Damn it, I hate you." Was all I could say.

"I know, I know." He said patting my shoulder.

He carried me into the A&E. The staff caught one look of us and I could hear snickering behind my back. I noticed I was still wearing the red pumps. We spent a good three hours waiting to be seen, another three waiting to be treated, and another hour waiting to be discharged.

I was sent home with an ankle brace and crutches. I couldn't help but be disgruntled. "Put you in heels and chase you with a knife, see how you like it. Bastard." I grumbled as I hobbled along with my crutches up to 221-B. It didn't help that Sherlock kept trying to comfort me in the waiting room. Asking if I fancied ass for dinner, ' _But John, we have a quarter tonne of ass, might as well make use of it.'_ How have I not throttled the man yet?

"Congratulations, Sherlock. You have ruined a perfectly good birthday, yet again."

"At least it was memorable." He said with a shrug.

"Yes. It was." I sneered. "It was a very special birthday, thanks. Now you can go back to being a dick." I opened the door and made my way in with a loud _kajunk, kajunk, kajunk_. I turned to go into Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Need help up the stairs?" Sherlock motioned towards the stairs.

"No, Sherlock, you've done enough already."

I was steaming with rage by the time I took a seat on Mrs. Hudson's sofa. She said I could stay as long as I liked. She made me tea and biscuits and prattled on about Sherlock and his nonsense. She was one hundred percent on my side and I was entirely grateful.

Sherlock came down several times and was turned away at the door by Mrs. H. I couldn't help but smile.

"You turn round right now, young man, n' march up those steps. I don't want any more trouble from you. Now get." She shooed him out with a broom like an unwanted alley cat.

I could hear Sherlock's heavy footfall on the stairs, apparently taking Mrs. Hudson's instructions too literally. I started to feel a slight pang of guilt, but I quickly drown it with more tea and biscuits.

It helped to complain about Sherlock to someone who wasn't Sherlock, and who could understand where I was coming from. I was actually enjoying myself, relaxing with Mrs. Hudson, watching crap telly with my leg propped up on an ice pack. It was lovely.

I really wasn't looking forward to a confrontation with Sherlock when I returned to our flat later that evening. Fortunately Sherlock had retreated to the bedroom. He was likely sore because I got hurt.

He always gets angry when I'm hurt. I don't know whether he's angry with himself or angry at me for being hurt. Either way, he doesn't like it one bit. It's likely he's cross for selfish reasons. Maybe he believes when I'm injured I can't be at his beck and call or cater to his every whim.

I decided to let him be and curled up on the sofa with a book I've been trying to read for ages, J.R.R. Tolkien's _The Hobbit._ I managed to get five pages in before passing out.


	4. The Hound of Baker Street

I woke up in a terror, finding myself in Sherlock's bed, not certain how I'd got there. I constantly worry about Sherlock experimenting on me in my sleep. It frightened me to no ends that he was able to transfer me to the bed without rousing me.

I sat up in bed, took off my brace, and looked over my swollen ankle. It wasn't as bad as it could have been; a minor sprain. Sherlock was trying, in his own way, to comfort me. I started to feel like a complete ass.

I was about to put the brace back on again when I heard a loud scratching sound at the door. It sounded as if an animal was crying to claw its way through. The door swung open and in bounded a flash of brown and white fur.

It leapt on to the bed and off again, slamming into the night table, causing the alarm clock to sail across the room. The mongrel bolted away from the tumbling clock, knocked into the standing lamp, which caused the bust of Goethe to come crashing to the floor.

Sherlock rushed into the room and started shouting at the dog "Nein! Komm!" He whistled. "Hier! Sitz!" The dog sat obediently and stared up at Sherlock with an unrelenting gaze. "Braver hund." He said patting the dog on the head. "Platz." The dog crouched on all fours, prime to pounce. Sherlock looked towards me.

"What the hell is that?" I shouted pointing at the rather ugly looking dog. It was whippet thin with long curly hair and lopped ears.

"It's a dog, John!" Sherlock said proudly. "You said you wanted a dog, I got you a dog." He smiled brightly. His expression begged the question _'Do you like it?'_

Sherlock's expression changed quickly when he saw my face. "Sorry, I just wasn't expecting..." I stammered. I looked at the dog once more. "What is it?"

"Half spaniel, half lurcher, or so I'm told."

"Like a... splurcher?" Sure looked like something that would be called a splurcher. It almost looked like an emaciated deerhound. It had the most sinister looking tan eyes. "Where in blazes did you find it?" No doubt he'd actually paid for the thing.

"You remember Mr. Sherman?"

"The one on Pinchin Lane in Lambeth... yes... how could I forget?" Sherlock had sent me on an errand to the man's house, the man was convinced I was a drunk and destitute and he tried to phone the police. He had me by the scruff of my jacket when I mentioned Sherlock's name and the man instantly turned friendly.

His abode was caked in filth and wreaked of ammonia. He had newspapers stacked up to the ceiling, along with unlabeled tins stacked in every corner. He kept a row of kennels in his front room. The dogs barked and whined the moment I entered the house. They clawed at their cages violently. It was Mr. Sherman that sparked the idea in my head that a dog would do well on Baker Street.

"You don't like it." Sherlock said with an air of sadness.

"It's just... I..." I took a moment to think of the right way to put it. "I thought we'd pick out one together... maybe one a bit younger... a puppy perhaps." I shrugged and tried not to focus on Sherlock's pitiful face. "Maybe one that speaks English? Well... dogs don't speak... but you get what I'm saying, right? Sherlock?" Sherlock let out a sigh, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

I hated to see him like this. It was like crushing the hopes and dreams of a small child. He'd only wanted to make me happy. How could I be so cruel?

"I suppose I'll be the one to take him to the pound." He sighed. "It isn't likely he'd be adopted, given his age." Sherlock pouted his bottom lip. "He'd have better luck on the streets, as it is."

"All right, fine." I said haughtily. "He can stay." Sherlock donned a satisfied smirk.

It turns out Toby, as he was called, 'spoke' English just fine. The dog was as smart as a whip; far too smart for his own good. Sherlock could bark orders to keep him at bay; the dog knew who his master was and it wasn't me.

During my recovery I had little control over the mutt. He'd do as he pleased: hopping up onto the countertops to eat my food, running between my legs while I limped on my crutches, he'd knocked me over several times. I swear the dog thought it was hilarious.

He couldn't be trusted with large quantities of dog food at once. He'd gobble his food down, find a good spot on the carpet, and throw up.

"For God's sake, Toby!" I'd shout. He made a point of walking off the kitchen tile and on to the one spot of carpet in the flat, just to vomit.

He completely ignored me the majority of the time, unless I was making dinner, in which case he'd beg at my feet and paw at my knee for scraps. Yet, he followed Sherlock around like he worshiped the man. He constantly looked up at Sherlock as he trotted beside him. He followed Sherlock's every command with great enthusiasm.

I'd finally had it up to here with the dog after three weeks of torment. My ankle had finally healed enough to walk on it fully and I was ready to give Toby the boot. Sherlock was far too busy with the Ripper case, the next anticipated attack was in two days and he was completely baffled with the red herrings the Ripper left for him.

The soil samples were contaminated from ten different sources, eight of which were probable locations for the murderer to reside, one being Whitechapel itself. There were no fingers prints. The knife used on both women was still in the killer's possession and the crime scene was clean of any incriminating evidence. The killer only left what he or she wanted us to find.

Toby stood guard at Sherlock's side when I approached him. Sherlock was mindlessly stroking behind Toby's ear while gazing into his dissecting scope which he had set up on the kitchen table.

"Sherlock, I'd like a word with you." I said shifting uncomfortably. Sherlock looked up from the eyepiece of his scope. "Alone." I said, feeling foolish. Sherlock dismissed the dog. Toby left to curl up next to Sherlock's empty arm chair. I swallowed hard. "I don't think Toby's working out..." I said pecking at my fingernails.

"Nonsense." Sherlock said turning to look at his specimen once more.

"For me."

"Oh." Sherlock said, his gaze never leaving the microscope. "Fine."

I was taken aback. What did he mean by fine? _'Fine, I'll get rid of him'_ or _'Fine, I'll get rid of you'_

"What d'you mean by fine?" I finally inquired.

"He needn't share our dwelling. I'll have him board with Mr. Sherman once more, borrow him when needed." Sherlock shrugged. "It's fine." He started scribbling something on the notepad he kept beside his scope.

"You sure?" I asked hesitantly.

"It's all fine, John." He assured me. I looked toward the dog that was awaiting his master by his favourite chair. His ears perked up as if he knew we were discussing his fate. I felt a pang of guilt hit me square in the chest.

"You know... he can stay... really." I said sadly. "I don't mind." Sherlock turned to look up at me. He glanced at my hand. I noticed it was shaking. It hit me at once: I was on the verge of tears. I withdrew to the bedroom before any could spill out.

I sucked in a breath and held it. Safely behind the door a few small tears dribbled down my cheeks. I let out a long exhale and composed myself. I had no idea what came over me. I was certain I wasn't jealous of the dog.

I was torn. Toby brought Sherlock great joy, but in turn he made me miserable. I didn't hate the dog but I couldn't stand to have him outsmarting me. I didn't have the temperament or know-how to deal with such a creature.

I was thankful Sherlock didn't chase me down and ask what was wrong or else I would have broken down completely. It took a moment to get my wits together and come to a decision.

I decided that if Toby made Sherlock happy, I'd just have to suffer through it. Find the redeeming qualities in the mongrel and hopefully form some sort of bond. I stepped back outside to see Sherlock still seated in the kitchen. Everything was as it was before I'd run off. I took in a deep breath. "He's staying." I said firmly. Sherlock hummed an acknowledgment.

I reached out to touch his shoulder and it felt like ice shot up through my finger tips. The sensation left a cold chill coursing through my veins. I knew there was something wrong with me. I'd never felt like this before.

I withdrew my hand and rubbed my palm. I felt a tightening in my chest and throat, making it difficult to breath. I wanted to hide away until my emotions sorted themselves out.

I took my laptop into the bedroom and started my research. I looked into hypogonadism. Fatigue, weakness, depression, loss of sex drive. Then my eye caught 'development of breast tissue' and I found myself inadvertently rubbing my chest when Sherlock walked in. My hands jerked away and I felt my cheeks flush red.

I didn't feel like telling him I was checking to see if I suddenly had boobs. There was an awkward silence in the room. He leaned in to see what I was looking at and I shut the laptop.

"Self diagnosing, are we?" Sherlock asked with a smirk. He walked over to the bookcase and pulled out a phycology book.

"Diatoms of Arid Southwest?" I asked, looking at the title. "Sounds riveting. I take it the mosquito larvae were inconclusive?"

"No, I fancied a light read." Sherlock said thumbing through the book. He slammed it shut and made a hasty retreat. I opened the laptop once more. The treatment seemed simple enough. Intramuscular injection, every two or three weeks.

Uncommon side effects, sleep apnea, acne... breast enlargement. I couldn't help but curse, "Fuck." I hissed. What choice did I really have?

It wasn't difficult obtaining a script for the injections. They seemed to be giving them away. I was a proper candidate for treatment. I was fit and didn't have an underlying heart condition. However, the blood test was somewhat equivocal. Regardless, I had high hopes for the treatment.

I was scheduled to receive my first injection on the day of the double homicide. Sherlock's head was swarming with ideas. I expected him to explode with anger at the police for letting it happen again.

Once again, the areas were roped off and guarded. They'd increased the police presence fourfold yet at 1 and 1.45 am the women's bodies were found precisely where Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes were murdered 125 years ago.

We stood at the sight of the first murder, Dutfield's Yard on Henriques Street. Sherlock knelt on the pavement beside the deceased. Woman, aged 44, five feet two inches, the throat was deeply gashed on the left side yet more superficial on the right. A silk handkerchief was tied around her neck; it was torn clean, perhaps by the murder weapon. Under her right brow was a small abrasion and she had discolouration under both collarbones. The left carotid was partially severed.

Sherlock opened her mouth to reveal the woman was missing a good sum of teeth on the lower left side of her jaw. The first victim had also been missing teeth. I tried to recall if the second had all of her teeth when I noticed Sherlock looking over the woman's heel in the same fashion he did the prior victim.

"What are you doing?" I asked as he ran his finger over the calcaneus.

"Hm?" He hummed. "Oh, yes." He sucked in a breath and stood up. "Prostitute." He said plainly, pealing the examination gloves off his fingertips.

"How-" I started, but I received a tap on the shoulder.

"John." Greg looked concerned. "I'm gonna have to have a word with you."

"Not again." I groaned. "Another witness?"

"Yeah." Greg nodded, shifting uncomfortably.

"Listen, Sherlock-"

"It isn't Sherlock. Look, I'm sorry but I'm going to have to bring you in."

"For what!?" I shouted indignantly.

"Calm down, John, it's standard procedure-"

"Didn't see you bring in Sherlock-"

"John, just calm down." Greg said putting his hands up. He gently escorted me to the waiting patrol car. I sat for what felt like hours, expecting Sherlock to come to my defence. I decided not to make the situation worse by fighting it.

When Greg finally entered the vehicle and turned on the ignition I was livid yet remained cool. "I cannot believe I'm a suspect."

In the examination room it became evident I was in for a long day. I was introduced to a Detective Inspector I had never met. DI Gregson. He was a tall tow-headed man that moved in a cool and callous way, never once taking a seat while he interrogated me.

I was informed at 11.00 the night prior, the victim was seen with a short man with fair hair and a dark moustache. I was shown a camera still from the CCTV nearby. I had to admit he had my likeness, yet he donned a bowler hat, I would never be caught dead in such a hat. I scrubbed, absent-mindedly at my moustache. I had been working on it for quite some time, yet now I considered shaving it. It did set me apart from the crowd and made me easy to identify.

Just as I felt like I had failed in the interrogation and would likely be held in an overnight cell, I was released. Greg apologised profusely. I gave him no response as I left New Scotland Yard.

Mycroft had pulled through and gave the orders for my release. I pulled my phone out of the bag of my personal belongings and thumbed through the fifty-seven texts Sherlock left. He detailed the second crime scene and sent several gruesome photos.

I made my doctor's appointment in the nick of time. I had debated cancelling it after seven hours in police custody but I was ready to start the therapy. I kept scanning the photos in the waiting room. I was taken aback, Sherlock actually asked for my advice. I was eager to impress.

The second woman was found in a corner of Mitre Square, splayed out on her back, with her clothes drawn up to her abdomen. The face was grossly disfigured. The throat was cut, just as the others, with a handkerchief tied around her neck. Surely, the handkerchief belonged to the murderer. I didn't know many modern women who wore handkerchiefs.

 **The kerchiefs?** I sent the text to Sherlock as I was called into the room. I sat waiting for what felt like ages.

 **Taiwan in origin, irrelevant. -SH** Was the response I received. I let out a heavy sigh and returned to the texts. The second victim was also last seen with a moustached man.

I zoomed in on the full portrait photograph. She was disembowelled as well, the left kidney was removed. However, I noticed that the way the kidney was removed would have no practical use on the black market.

 **The killer doesn't have any anatomical skills or the technical skills of a butcher.** I noticed a thimble near the woman's left hand. The other woman murdered that evening had a pack of mints in her left hand. These were obviously planted on the bodies to follow the story. **Have you looked into the mints and thimble?** I was becoming impatient waiting for a response. I thought to the first murder of the day. **Those lacerations on the first woman's neck were from a sharper blade.** I thought a moment. **The women weren't killed by the same person.**

**? –SH**

**If the blade was razor sharp and small, like a scalpel, it would need a pencil's grip. The incision was made left to right. Given the woman was standing when she was murdered, a left-handed murderer would have a hard time making such a clean cut.**

**Baker Street. At once –SH**

**Can't. Busy.**

**Become un-busy. –SH**

I was certain I had a Cheshire cat grin at that point. I'd thought of something clever. I was highly impatient at this point. Just like a civilian doctor to take all day to give a simple intramuscular injection.

A young boy who looked fresh out of school waltzed in. _Oh no_. I thought to myself. The young ones were always full of themselves. Old doctors just make quick work of the shot and left well alone. This one had to strike up a conversation about risks and complications, contraindications and how to call 999. I rolled my eyes. He lined up the shot like he was shooting darts, I tried my best not to criticize him but the stab had an unnecessary sting.

Of course the results wouldn't be immediate but I did have a sense of relief that it was done. In two weeks time I'd have my second shot and maybe by then I'd see a change.

On the tube ride home, I removed my band-aid and rubbed over the injection sight. I glanced up to see a beautiful woman sitting across from me, reading a novel. She saw me looking and smiled gently. I couldn't help but smile back. She had shoulder length auburn hair that had soft curls throughout. Her skin had a gentle glow to it; she had the slightest amount of freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose.

I noticed her shoes, of all things. They offset her dress quite nicely. "Schoolteacher." I blurted out unintentionally.

"What?" She asked, obviously taken aback.

"I am so sorry. That was real... really a creepy thing of me to say." I laughed. "Your shoes are just... they're more casual than the dress. Comfortable shoes, on her feet all day. Cut of your dress says you work with children." She looked at me in awe. "That and your ID tag is hanging out of your bag." I laughed. She laughed in unison.

"You're a regular Sherlock Holmes." She said. I bit my bottom lip and let out a quiet laugh.

"Yeah." We spoke for the rest of the train ride and both got off at Baker Street. She didn't live too far. We exchanged numbers. It wasn't until we parted and I reached 221-B that I realised what I had done.

I shook the thought out of my head and walked up the stairs. I was positively beaming when I entered the flat. Toby greeted me at the door. He started sniffing at my leg. He pressed his nose closer and drew in heavy breaths, snorting slightly. He scanned down my leg and went on to the next.

"What is this? A drug's bust?" I pushed his head away and he looked confused. I walked over to my chair and he followed at my heels. "You'd swear I was wearing gravy soaked pants." Sherlock was staring off into space. He had his bow drawn, but it was behind his head, he seemed to have stopped mid itch. His violin swung idly from his hand. "Sherlock?" He slowly came out of his daze and his eyes focused on me.

"Different murderers... made to seem like the same one... ingenious John." His pupils flared. He remained in his awkward pose. "Where ever did you come up with the idea?"

"I... I don't even own a bowler." I said highly concerned.

"If I were you, and thankfully I'm not, I'd reconsider shaving your moustache."

"I just thought the murder weapons were different. I'm not some... sex crazed serial killer."

"Sex crazed?" Sherlock brought his bow down to rest more comfortably on his lap.

"They're all prostitutes right?"

"Inconsequentially, yes."

"You know what a prostitute does for a living. Right?"

Sherlock glared at me ferociously. He drew his bow to his violin's strings and started to hack away like a maniac. "Back on the seven percent again, are we?" I mumbled as I picked up Sherlock's laptop. He ended abruptly with a loud screech.

"Four women." He said angrily, placing the violin on the floor. He stood and started pacing the floor.

"Yes."

"Four women. Four assassins." He started circling my chair like a hawk, looming over me. "Hired hands. But why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would four women be hired to carry out the murders?"

"Maybe they're acting independently." I mused.

"No, no. That would be far too coincidental."

"I mean, without a ring leader." Sherlock stopped in place like he'd hit an invisible wall.

"Oh!" He shouted "John!" He fell to his knees beside my chair. "That's precisely it! You couldn't employ enough women to do anything of this nature, under one person's direction. However, if each was acting on their own accord, with their own motives. Yes." He sprang up. "They act alone, in unison. One takes the dive. The patsy. The other four walk away scot-free." He sported a wicked grin as he steepled his fingers and brought them to his chin. "The final of the five. That's where we'll catch the scape-goat. All the other women were killed in open areas. The last victim was found in a single room on 13 Miller's Court. There's no-" Sherlock stopped. His smile faded. "Mm." He hummed. "No." He shook his head. "It isn't right."

"What isn't?" I was disappointed that my brilliant idea might be amiss. I didn't have them often, especially not ones that Sherlock became excited over. "We need to catch these women before they kill again. Their next intended target isn't a prostitute."

"Who is it then?"

"Lestrade."


	5. The Sign of the Whore

Sherlock spent many a night at the kitchen table, falling asleep buried in his work. Books towered over him on the table. We'd both gone over the original police reports and compared them to the new reports at least ten times over. There was very little that had been overlooked. It seemed only the names had changed.

The women corresponded very well with the original victims. Their profiles were a near perfect match. The crime was highly elaborate and organized. What would possess four women to play out the Whitechapel murders 125 years later? Who were these two men? Both sporting our likeness. Were they meant to frame me and Sherlock? There was too much that remained uncertain.

By the time I was due for my second shot I did notice slight changes in how alert I was. It helped to have something to focus my energy on. And I did have a lot of extra energy.

Toby's favourite word soon became 'park'. We'd leave Sherlock to his work, so he could throw his tantrums in silence, and we wouldn't return for hours.

I was getting used to the old chap. Toby had a funny little hobble to his gait. He trotted like a pony; was near as big as one as well. He was a good three feet off the ground and made me look quite a deal shorter when I stood next to him. He was a bit tall for either breed that supposedly made up his genetics.

The splurcher attracted loads of attention. People seemed to really love the scraggily looking dog. He was well built for running. Not only could he sprint but he could run long distances as well. When I let him off the lead at the park he would bolt at full speed to the other end of the field.

He had selective hearing but was highly motivated by the sound of a fresh crisp's bag being opened. He was an absolute terror to people on picnics. He stole any food he could get his paws on. He was an opportunist and couldn't be trusted with small children. He'd once returned to me with a lolly's stick hanging out of his mouth.

I tried keeping him on a lead and our walks quickly turned into drags, so I abandoned the idea, in favour of keeping my arm in its socket.

Our long walks were doing wonders for my skin and muscle tone. I had a healthy tan and my waistline seemed to be slimming by the day. My torso was becoming more defined and thank God I didn't develop breasts.

I couldn't help but worry about the treatment. Even when I had my head in the casework, my mind constantly nagged me that things were still amiss. I was no longer in a depression and I was much more attentive but I still didn't feel like my old self.

I never thought of myself as a lady-killer. I had confidence, but that was about it. I lacked that confidence with Sherlock. When he gave me the cold shoulder, it felt like ice was coursing through my vessels. I desired his attention when he was least apt to give it to me.

I was hoping he might notice me after the second injection. I was vastly improved. I hardly nagged him. The flat was in a constant state of disarray because I wasn't chasing him with a broom. Certainly he'd notice the change and appreciate it. At least, in his own Holmesian way.

I was sitting in my chair, trying to get Toby to fetch a toy, when Sherlock approached me for the first time in days. He held out a phone and a piece of paper. I noticed he'd already dialled the number. I held it to my ear and read off the list.

He had an irrational fear of placing orders for take-away; an even worse fear of going to pick up said orders. I brought Toby along to the Indian restaurant on Chiltern Street. We passed by the shop where we'd purchased the killer heels. My ankle cringed at the memory.

Toby had a stupid dog grin on his face and was highly content walking along side me without his lead. I knew he'd trip me up with his lead and cause me to spill the take-away. I had to outsmart the dog. I wasn't about to deal with the liquid aftermath once it had passed through his system.

Toby's attitude changed abruptly. His jaw clamped shut and he stood alert. His tail pointed straight as he lowered his head and lifted his front leg like a Pointer. "What is it boy?" He took it as a command to sprint. I chased after him. He raced like a cheetah and howled madly into the night. He turned a sharp corner and I lost track of him.

I could hear his loud whining howl echo in the empty alleyway. I followed his cries, until I reached the horrid scene. I pulled out my mobile immediately and phoned Greg.

Police flooded the narrow alleyway and started setting up lights and roping off the area. DI Dimmock had taken over crime scene management. He looked well worn out. He was newly married and had a look on his face that said not happily so.

"How's the baby?" I tried changing the subject from the severed torso lying a stone's skip away.

"He's fine. Two months old this next Tuesday."

"What'd you end up naming him?" I shifted to look away from the flashing cameras.

"Mm." He half growled. "Jack." It went without saying that was rather unfortunate.

Sherlock showed up on cue. Toby pulled at the Constable holding him by the collar. Sherlock took one look at the dismembered body and said, "That shouldn't be here."

"No shit, Sherlock." Dimmock snipped. Sherlock gave him a look that said _'Do you really want to go there with me?'_

"She should be on the Victoria Embankment near Whitehall. What is she doing here?" Sherlock placed his hands behind his back, gave the body a quick look, and let out a sigh. "Butyric fermentation. She was meant to be found a month ago." He looked at the ground surrounding the body. "They were interrupted, not daring to return to the scene of the crime."

"They?" Dimmock inquired.

"Yes, the four." Sherlock hummed as he stopped in front of some tire tracks.

"What four?"

"The Murdering Mistresses, do keep up, Inspector." Sherlock whistled and a forensic assistant rushed over to photograph the marks. "They've been stretching the story to include the Whitehall Mystery. Making the Torso Killer and Jack the Ripper one in the same. That means there have been others. I'll have to look at any and all murder reports from Whitechapel dating back to April. Forget the _modus operandi_."

"The _modus operandi_?" Dimmock titled his head in confusion.

"According to the story, the right arm will be in the Thames, leave it. I need the left leg. It should be buried near Whitehall."

"What do you need a leg for?" Dimmock asked with a startled squeak.

"The sign of the whore." Sherlock said turning his coat collar up. He motioned for the officer to release Toby. "Good show old boy." He said as Toby trotted up to him. He seemed to be beaming up at Sherlock with admiration. I trailed along closely.

Sherlock took Toby straight home while I picked up our lukewarm dinner. We ate in our separate arm chairs, due to the clutter on the desk and kitchen table. I pushed the chicken around the soupy curry with my fork. Toby looked at me in anticipation. I gave him a piece of peach and he gobbled it up, realised what it was, and spat it back out and on to the floor. He resumed his whimpering and begging.

"What do you make of the Torso Killer?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"Same as the second."

"The Hanbury parking garage murderer?" Sherlock nodded. "How do you figure?"

"The uterus of the canonical second was removed by a former surgeon, possibly a coroner. The right arm on the torso was tourniqueted and removed, post-mortem, with the same precision."

"So one of the murderers is a doctor?"

"It would appear so." Sherlock picked at his food as well. For some reason Toby never bothered Sherlock when he ate, as if my food was far superior. "How's the treatment?"

I swallowed a piece of chicken hard and choked out a shocked "What?" I should have known I couldn't pull the wool over his eyes.

"No ill effects?" He asked with a disappointed look.

"I um... no... none that I've noticed. Why?" Sherlock just looked away and let the conversation drop. I knew I should have discussed it with him instead of acting so secretive. It made it all look highly suspicious. I'm still not sure why I didn't tell him in the first place. It all seems so silly. Perhaps I was embarrassed. I didn't want to make it his problem.

Yet the problem still remained. The injections did nothing for my confidence. I was attracting women left and right. I had to keep them from following me home on several occasions. I'd never had so much luck with the ladies. It only exacerbated my problems at home.

I could be hanging from the rafters by a noose and Sherlock wouldn't have batted an eye. Probably would even have asked me to pass him a pen.

Perhaps I'm being overly dramatic, but it carries some truth. I was receiving less and less attention from Sherlock over the past few months. At first I thought it was in my head. I was being far too demanding and attention seeking.

Now we barely spoke. I waited for him to come to me and had otherwise ignored him completely. I hadn't once invited him on my walks with Toby. I had been bottling up all my emotions up until that point.

"You know." I said scooting forward in my chair. "I'm getting tired of this little dance we're doing, aren't you?" Sherlock placed his take-away on the table beside him. "We're so afraid to step on each other's feet we can't even enjoy each other's company. Like we used to." Sherlock went to stand. "Sit." I commanded gently. I placed my box on the side table next to me, folded my hands, and placed them in my lap. "We're going to talk about our _feelings_." Sherlock's eyes darted rapidly to the nearest exit.

"Feelings?"

"Grievances." I offered as an alternative.

"Mm." Sherlock looked at me with his all-knowing eyes. "Your grievances..." He brought his hand to his chin in a thoughtful pose.

"I thought we'd discuss yours as well."

Sherlock ignored me as he continued to think. His eyebrows dropped when he came to a realisation. "This is about sex, isn't it?"

"No." I said indignantly; brushing the idea off as nonsense, though it was absolutely true. I didn't like to think our relationship was founded on sexual perversion; it really wasn't. We had a special sort of friendship.

It wasn't as Scotland Yard thought it to be. We didn't throw ourselves at each other in a heated passion in the hallway or forcefully snog each other in darkened alleys. We were modest and decent. Mostly.

Considering our love affairs had all been fuelled by liquor, we were able to retain a certain amount of dignity in our endeavours. It wasn't passionate love making by any means, but it wasn't cheap porn either.

We were able to wake up in the morning and look each other in the eye when all was said and done. I had only wished that we would build up to the point where we didn't need alcohol to spark our romance. If it could be called 'romance'.

"John, we're on a pressing case right now. In a week's time there will be another pointless killing." It certainly hadn't bothered Sherlock before, being in the middle of a case. He could be in the mood before, during, or after a case. I had to keep a bottle of tequila at the ready for whenever the mood struck.

"I just want some compassion. You haven't been to bed in ages."

"God, if I sleep with you will you shut up?"

"Yes." I answered quickly.

"Then let's go." He stood up, grabbed my hand tightly, and dragged me to the bedroom. He fell on to the bed first and shut his eyes.

"What are you doing?" I asked, unzipping my jeans.

"Sleeping." He mumbled into the sheets.

"Ah-ha." I said grabbing a pair of loose fitting pyjama bottoms out of the pile of clean laundry. "So you're going to sleep _with_ me; not, _sleep_ with me?" Sherlock opened one eye and gave me a look that said ' _there's a difference?'_ "It's fine. Could use a bit of sleep." I slid on my pyjamas, turned out the light, slid into bed beside him, and laid a small kiss on his forehead. Extremely domestic, I know.

I stayed awake, listening for a change in Sherlock's breathing pattern so I could fall asleep knowing he wouldn't run off the moment I shut my eyes. I was in a dead sleep when I felt Sherlock start to stir. I barely cracked my eyes open to see he had one foot on the ground; I could see his cold steel-blue glowing in the moonlight. He was slinking off the bed in a cat-like stretch, trying not to wake me.

"Oh no you don't!" I shouted, grabbing him by his shirt's collar. I dragged him back on to the bed. "You said."

"Unh." He grunted in response. "The lost letter."

"You promised." I all but pouted. Dignity was not my strong suit at three in the morning.

"I have to get to The National Archives." I wrapped my arms and legs around him, pinning him to my chest.

"At this hour?"

"Preparations-" I broke his thoughts with a small peck on the lips. "Must. Be. Made." He staggered in between kisses.

"Please." I pouted. He struggled to break my grip. "I'm not letting you get away that easy." He grabbed my hips and sunk his fingers in, trying to pry me off.

The air was filled with all sorts of indecent noises, grunts and swears. Anyone who overheard us would have believed we were at it. I constricted Sherlock tighter using all the strength in my thighs to hold him in place. I clutched his face with both hands and crushed our lips together to muffle his curses.

It was painfully obvious I was turned on. Sherlock's struggling was doing nothing to ease my arousal. There wasn't much I could do to hide it, having our bodies pressed together. I tried feebly to keep from stabbing him in the abdomen.

Sherlock eased into the kiss and I felt a moan escape from the back of my throat that sounded nothing like me. My knees went week; Sherlock pressed down on my hips, pinning me to the bed.

I looked up at him, hoping he'd take a hint, but instead he slid off the bed, leaving me utterly aroused, with no promise of returning to finish the job. I let out an aggravated sigh, scrubbed my hands over my face, and debated a wank.

I rolled over and fell into a fitful sleep. I woke to the sound of someone rummaging through Sherlock's dresser. I was quick to draw the Sig from the bedside table. I caught the reflection of the man's eyes in the mirror. He turned a quarter turn to look at the gun. He raised both eyebrows.

"Jesus fucking Christ! Is it your goal in life to see me to an early grave?" I looked Sherlock over.

"John, you're staring." Sherlock's voice sounded deeper and richer. I shook my head. He threw a pair of jeans on the bed and shed himself of his trousers.

"Didn't know you owned... hey! Is that _my_ jacket?" Sherlock tugged at the sleeves of the jacket, _my_ Haversack shooting jacket.

"It's a bit short." He said shifting his shoulders uncomfortably. "Then again... so are you." He said with a grin. I found myself staring again. I couldn't bring myself to look away.

"Sherlock your hair..."

"Mm, a bit lighter than I had intended."

"It's amazing." He'd dyed it a copper red colour that matched his eyebrows perfectly. It drew the deep emerald hues out of his eyes. It looked incredibly natural. "You got that colour out of a bottle?" I noticed his facial hair. "Wait a tic, how'd you-" Sherlock peeled back one of the false sideburns. "Wow, it's real convincing... Hardly knew it was you... what's with the disguise?"

"We've attracted far too much attention."

"From the media?" The Met had requested minimal media coverage while the case was still open, to not give the criminals a stage to perform their play. The internet exploded with news about the Ripper's return and several hundred hoax e-mails and websites had popped up with people claiming to be the 21st century Ripper.

It sparked Sherlock's interest in finding the lost letter from Hell. He was convinced the letter was written by the real Jack the Ripper but it had been stolen from the Ripper police files along with a box containing a human kidney, preserved in ethanol.

Another letter named the "Dear Boss" letter had been stolen as well but it had been returned to the Met in 1987. While this letter was a complete hoax, it could be the key to finding the real one. It was housed at the National Archives at Kew.

Sherlock ignored me as he stuffed his legs into his jeans. He barely got them over his hips; they were tight in all the right spots. I had to wipe the drool out of the corners of my mouth, I blinked out of my daze; feeling a fool for ogling over my flatmate. "Erm, should I disguise myself as well?"

"No."

"Right, but I'll need a shower. Could use a shave."

"John." Sherlock gave me the look. I hated 'the look'. I didn't need his pity. I shifted to rest my back against the headboard.

"How long?"

"I'll be back by the ninth."

It pained me greatly to know he'd be going alone, with no one to protect him. It was probably for the best. It still hurt though, to be left behind.

"Call me." I begged. "It's the least you can do."

"I'll try." He said pulling out a suitcase from under the bed. He started stuffing it, haphazardly, with clothes. A deafening silence fell on the room.

Sherlock locked the clasps on his suitcase and left hurriedly. I sucked in a deep breath and let out a sigh. By the time I had gotten out of bed and entered the living area he'd left; without saying good-bye.

We hadn't been apart for more than a day in over two years. Not since the fall. Half the time, I couldn't bear to be in the other room. There was no telling where the 'Dear Boss' letter would send him. He could be on the other side of the globe and wouldn't send so much as a text letting me know if he was okay or not.

I lasted all of ten minutes before I broke down crying. It felt shameful. My heart ached for Sherlock. I just needed to know he was alright.

I took in some deep breaths to compose myself. After my tears had dried, I called Greg. What a huge mistake that was.


	6. A Case of Chickenpox

Sherlock burst through the front door unannounced. I dropped the sauce pan with scalding hot macaroni on to the floor and started to shout.

"Sherlock! For Fu-" I cut myself off and just hissed in pain.

"What is this!?" Sherlock shouted. "What's it doing on my chair? For God's sake! It's covered in spots! John! It's diseased! Oh, please... tell me it's not one of Lestrade's. Why would you let it in the flat?" Sherlock snapped his fingers. "Down, down."

"Sherlock!" I near screamed.

"It's crying! Why is it crying?"

" _It_ is a little girl, and you're yelling at her!" I groaned as Toby started gobbling up gobs of macaroni. He was in hog heaven. He'd already eaten the poor girl's Happy Meal, while she was eating it, and even licked her face clean as a final insult. I growled at Toby who started to slink away.

Greg's youngest had come down with a case of chickenpox and a nasty one at that.

"Shit. Sherlock, have you had chickenpox?"

"No." Sherlock gave me a look of utter repulsion. How dare I ever suggest he was diseased at one point in time?

"Sherlock! Get out! You can't catch it at your age! It could-"

"Relax. I've been vaccinated." He said, rolling his eyes. He continued to glare at Zoe who was sniffling and wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve.

"What were you kept in a plastic bubble as a child?" I shook my head as I started to sweep up the mess. "I had it when I was five; my mum even set me up on a play date with a kid who had it. That's what everyone in the neighbourhood did. Better to catch it young was their logic. Mum was convinced part of Harry's problem was her brain was fried because she caught it later on. Can't believe you've never had it." I rambled on, much to Sherlock's dismay. "Everyone gets the chickenpox, Sherlock, everyone." I stood and chucked the wasted food in the bin. Toby licked his chops, I could see in his eyes he was plotting. I placed the bin on the countertop and Toby retreated to the bedroom. _Curses, foiled again._

"My mother would never have me play with a diseased child." Sherlock's nose wrinkled in disgust looking over the three year old. She was covered in thousands of pox. She suffered from eczema which somehow exacerbated the problem. She looked as miserable as she felt.

I had tried at least half a dozen creams and ointments trying to alleviate her itching but nothing seemed to work. I had been watching her for two days by then; Sherlock was supposed to be gone for another four days. Greg would have never agreed to leave Zoe alone with me if Sherlock was going to be present. Sherlock was notoriously terrible with children. At best, when he tried, he'd only make them run away screaming in terror.

After Sherlock had settled down, kicked Zoe out of his chair, changed the program on the telly, and started to bark orders at me, I decided to lay down some ground rules.

"No experiments." I said handing him his pen. "Especially no experiments on the kid. Sherlock are you listening?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a huff. "Greg expects his youngest to be in one piece when we... I return her to him."

"Why would he ever trust you?" Sherlock knitted his brows and stared at the telly. His tone was tinged with jealousy. I could never tell what he truly thought of Greg; the fact that he never referred to him by his first name was off-putting but then he'd get jealous that Greg trusted me over him. I didn't know what to think of it. It wasn't like he fancied the man, I knew that much, but he was terribly possessive.

"Sherlock, he's desperate." The man was always desperate, it was his normal excuse. "Besides... I know a thing or two about kids, I have medical training-"

"Fantastic, if an IED goes off in the flat you can amputate her limbs without significant blood loss. Medical training." He scoffed. I glanced at the program on the telly.

"Could we _please_ find something more age appropriate?" Sherlock had on a documentary of Nazi Germany that he was hardly even paying attention to.

"Can I eat some-fing?" Zoe looked up at me like a neglected puppy.

"Oh, God that's right. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Is toast all right?"

"And sugar?" She added.

"I think I can manage that." I said with a smile. She was awfully cute. I noticed Sherlock glaring. "What?"

He mumbled something along the lines of "You never make me toast." To say Sherlock acted like a child would be an insult to children. He was beyond aggravating at times; inconsolable, insatiable, and impossible.

At least Zoe was content with her bread and butter coated in sugar. You'd swear I was Jamie Oliver the way she raved about my cooking. She went through three pieces before she started just licking off the butter and sugar. Sherlock was absolutely appalled.

"God, why must children be so repulsive?"

"You know, you _were_ a kid once." I reminded him. Sherlock growled and ignored me as he pulled out his suitcase and withdrew a gold folder. He opened it to reveal an ancient looking letter. "Sherlock is that?"

"Yes." Sherlock handed me the letter written in red ink. The paper was yellow and faded with two holes punched in the top. The penmanship was easy enough to read.

_25 Sept.1888._

_Dear Boss,_

_I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they have look so clever and talked about being on the right track. That joke about Leather apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. you will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper Red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope_ _._ _The next job I do I shall clip the lady s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldnt you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck._

_Yours truly  
Jack the Ripper_

_Don't mind me giving the trade name_

"Sherlock, you mean to tell me, you stole this from the archives?" Sherlock shrugged in response. "It's a national treasure for Christ's sake! How… Is that?" I looked over the heading of the second level. "The letter from Hell! Where ever did you find it?"

"Northern Ireland."

"It's been lost for 125 years!" He handed it over and I gently held it by its edges. The handwriting was jagged and sloppy. The paper was heavily stained and faded. It smelled of musk and mould.

"It was easy enough to track down."

"Sherlock… you were born in the wrong era. Could you imagine, capturing the real Jack the Ripper?"

"Mm. I'm only interested in the matter at hand." I squinted to read the letter.

_From hell_

_Mr Lusk_  
Sor  
I send you half the  
Kidne I took from one women  
prasarved it for you tother piece  
I fried and ate it was very nise. I  
may send you the bloody knif that  
took it out if you only wate a whil  
longer.

 _signed_  
Catch me when  
you Can

_Mishter Lusk._

I was surprised Sherlock hadn't taken a pen to the letter and to correct the horrific grammatical errors.

Sherlock snatched a drawing off the side table. "What's this?" He asked in disgust. Zoe pulled the drawing away from him and held it close to her chest.

"Toby." She said glaring at Sherlock.

"It's an amorphous blob! It bears no resemblance to Toby, at all!"

"Mine!" She shouted clutching the piece of paper with her chubby fingers.

"Enough you two." I said with a sigh. I prayed for Greg's speedy return.

"John, it's just a bunch of scribbles, it doesn't-"

"She's three." I said pinching my thumbs and forefingers together to keep from throttling him.

"But-"

"You're antagonizing her." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. "Room." I snapped my fingers and pointed. Sherlock growled and stayed seated. "I really don't need two three-year olds."

Sherlock crossed his arms and sunk into his chair. I wasn't about to drag Sherlock to the bedroom with Zoe intently watching our interactions.

"She'll be out of our hair at six. Lestrade said he'd get here as quick as humanly possible." Sherlock wasn't convinced. "How about we pop in a DVD, pass the time?" Zoe became my shadow as I went to look through the stack of DVDs Greg had left. She yanked the one I had in my hands out of my grip and held it up.

"This one!" She shouted excitedly.

" _Finding Nemo_ it is." I said looking over the DVD case. "You sure?" She nodded her head enthusiastically.

Sherlock lasted all of three minutes before he was thoroughly traumatized. The concept of death still eluded Zoe so she was confused why Sherlock was so flustered.

"Sherlock, you've seen far more gruesome deaths, real ones, can't you just-"

"Children shouldn't be subjected to such violent material!"

"Since when do you care?" I laughed.

"She's at a highly impressionable age. You can't show a child a mother being brutally murdered without any motive or explanation!"

"Sherlock! It didn't show _anything_."

"It was alluded to." He said with a huff.

"She isn't even bothered." We both looked over at Zoe who was staring up at us with her neck craned.

"On the outside perhaps… but think of the emotional torment she must be experiencing."

"She's not going to need years of therapy because of a Disney film." I looked Sherlock over. "Perhaps you might."

"We are encouraging homicidal behaviour."

"We're not her dads." I reminded him.

"They could have at least set it up as a premeditated murder." Sherlock said with a heavy sigh. He plopped down into his chair and pulled his violin's case onto his lap.

"And what? Had the barracuda checking off his hit list? Have Nemo's mum piss off the fishy mafia?"

"Maybe she owed the mob money. Was delinquent on her payments." Sherlock said with a shrug.

"So she's sleepin' with the fishes now?"

Sherlock cracked a smile and drew his bow over the strings eliciting a shrill cry from the violin. Zoe clamped her hands over her ears.

"Looks like you've got a little critic." I laughed. Sherlock started to play a soft minuet. Zoe moved her hands from her ears and sat down to listen. She started to itch at her arms and face. I applied another layer of calamine lotion.

Zoe's eyes began to get heavy, she bobbled back and forth. I gently helped her lie down. She was out like a light. I let out a sigh of relief. Sherlock slowly let the music fade out into a barely audible timbre. He finally drew his bow up and gently placed his violin back in his case.

Sherlock held the letter from Hell in his hands. He appeared to be analysing it thoroughly. I took the opportunity to lie down on the sofa and rest my eyes. It had been an exhausting two days. While Zoe was able to occupy my attention during the day, I couldn't catch a wink of sleep at night. My mind tortured me with horrific dreams. Knowing Sherlock was safe and sound was a great relief.

Greg arrived precisely on time and wasn't thrilled to see Sherlock had returned from abroad. He was highly concerned I'd left Sherlock alone with his daughter unattended. On the bright side, he'd found another sitter and I was off the hook. Sherlock failed to mention he'd stolen the letter from the archives and found the lost letter from Hell. It was likely he was still trying to make something of it.

While Sherlock and I were alone later that night I had to admit to him it was kind of fun watching over the little one.

"No." Sherlock said glaring at me. "Don't even think about it."

"Oh come on, it'd never come to apparition." I poked his hip with my foot. Sherlock and I were sprawled out on the couch trying to take up as much space as we could. I leaned back on my arm rest and stared up at the ceiling. Sherlock mirrored me on the other side of the sofa. "Are the letters any help?"

"Mm." He hummed. "I'm certain it will become painfully obvious to me given time. There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."

Sherlock beckoned me over with a tug on my arm. I repositioned myself to lay my ear on his chest. He began raking his fingers through my hair. I stared off into the distance, not really thinking about anything in particular; just becoming absorbed in the moment.

"I wish it could always be like this." I realized I'd said it out loud too late.

"With me at my rope's end?"

"Sherlock, what a terrible thing to say. I'm sure you'll get it." I let out a sigh and closed my eyes. "You always do." I could hear Sherlock's pulse begin to race. I opened my eyes to see a pained look on his face. "I've put too much pressure on you again, haven't I?" Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.

"M'fine." He said with a slight sniffle, he blinked a few times, and gulped. He had his moments of panic now and again. They were over in a flash but came on more frequently since we became closer. I was absolutely certain that it wasn't the case he was worried about.

We were far too relaxed in our position; I could have stayed like that for ages. Instead, Sherlock shoved me away, making up some excuse to put distance between us.

Sherlock went about his business, examining the letter in finer detail. I cringed as I watched him scrape at the document's mould patches and tear at its edges. He became so enthralled with the project he forgot all about Toby and I.

We went for our evening walk. Toby was less than excited to leave the flat. We rounded the block a few times and he still was lacking his normal zeal. He looked up at me with his ears slicked back and a sad look on his face. I wondered if it had anything to do with Sherlock.

In all the commotion he'd forgotten to greet Toby or even acknowledge him. I wondered if he'd picked up on the tension in the flat.

"He'll be back to normal soon enough." I assured him. "I'm talking to a dog…" I said with a sigh. Toby seemed slightly more relieved. He had been in constant trouble for the past forty-eight hours; it helps to know one's loved sometimes.

Love. Such a funny thing. Not long before, I wanted to send Toby away because he was proving to be impossible and in no time we were as thick as thieves.

We did have some things in common, we were constantly vying for Sherlock's attention, we both enjoyed long walks in the park, and we had about the same weak stomach when it came to Thai food.

When we returned to the flat Toby gave Sherlock and drive-by lick on the hand. Sherlock jumped at the sensation and turned to yell at Toby who was already under the bed. He shook his hand in disgust.

"What has gotten into that dog?"

"He's lonely." I said hanging up my jacket.

"He has _you_." Sherlock sneered.

"Yes but, believe it or not, he prefers your company over mine."

"I told you I didn't have the time for a dog. Why in heaven's name did you make me get one?" Sherlock tore his attention away from his book and slammed it shut. Dust flew into the air.

"Me? I'm the one that said 'go run out and get a dog'?" Sherlock gritted his teeth and returned to his books. "You know… I'm glad you did though. I wouldn't exchange him for the world. Unlike you." Sherlock looked up once more. "You never finish anything you start."

"Don't I?"

"No. Greg and I are always tying up your loose ends."

"So, it's Greg and I now?" Sherlock said furrowing his brows. He disregarded me completely as he flipped his microscope's light source on.

"You are such… God!" I shouted.

"Hm, and I can't finish what I start." Sherlock quipped. "You can't even finish a whole sentence without-" With that, I'd finally had enough. I pulled off my shoe, in a fit of rage, and threw it at his microscope. The shoe missed the instrument completely, and beamed him in the head. My hands instantly went to my mouth to smother my gasp.

Sherlock sat for a moment, in shock. I rushed to him. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean… I was aiming for the… Oh God, it looks like it hurts." A cherry red mark had formed above and below his right eye. Sherlock let me place my hands on both sides of his face to get a better look at the damage. He looked up at me with an expression of betrayal. He looked just as sorry as I was.

"You struck me." He said with a pout.

"Yes, I know." I looked down at him sorrowfully. "I wasn't even that mad!"

"With a shoe." He added. I pulled his head tight against my chest and he returned the embrace by wrapping his arms around my torso. I lay the side of my face against the top of his head and let out a heavy sigh. I ran my fingers through his copper curls, pushing them away from his forehead. He seemed complacent enough, given that he was just assaulted with a piece of flying footwear.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me." I pulled him away once more and held his face in my hands. I ran my thumb lightly over the bruise forming under his eye. He looked up at me with such sadness and hurt. I knew it had little to do with the incident. We had been building towards a meltdown. I leaned down and our lips met for a brief kiss. I pulled away and slowly let go of his face. I turned and left without a word, climbed the stairs to my old room, and lay down on the bed. I curled up into a ball and wrapped the blanket tight around myself.

I was woken by a loud pounding on my door. I checked my watch; it was past eleven. I was slightly delirious, trying to figure out who would be knocking on my bedroom door in the middle of the night.

A man going by the sheer strength of the knock. Sherlock would just barge in. The man behind the door was angry, going by the incessant racket he was making. Sounded like a policeman's knock.

"Open up!" It took me a moment to figure out it was Greg's voice. I hadn't heard him this mad in ages.

"S'open." I mumbled, pulling the sheets tighter. Greg swung the door open. He looked right pissed. I still was in a sleepy haze. "What?" I snipped.

"A word. Down stairs."

Interesting when Greg says 'a word' he never means 'a word' he usually means a whole string of words, all completely unpleasant. He never has a nice word to say when he wants 'a word'. I took my time getting dressed and met Greg downstairs where he was pacing the floor in front of Sherlock who was seated in his chair looking mighty guilty of something.

"Mind explaining this?" Greg's finger was shaking as he pointed to Sherlock's eye.

"It was an accident." I said defensively. How dare he make such accusations?

"You threw a shoe." Greg had his teeth bared and seemed to be seething with rage. "At his _face_."

"I didn't mean to hit him."

"What, you just wanted to spook him a bit?" Greg's fists were clenched. I backed away not knowing what his angle was. "I cannot believe you would do such a thing. I mean look at him." Sherlock's eye had turned a dark shade of purple and was still slightly swollen. "He looks like shit, John." He did look thinner than usual, he hadn't slept in days, he was shaking and had a worried look on his face; overall he looked like he was being abused. I had to let out a groan.

I rubbed my hands over my face. "We're fine."

"Does this look fine to you?" I shook my head. I couldn't in good conscience admit that he looked all right. "I need Sherlock on top of his game! If you haven't noticed, the Rippers are still out there." Greg put his hands on his hips and stopped mid-stride. He chewed on his bottom lip and stared at the floor boards. "There's been another." Sherlock looked surprised.

"No."

"Yes." Greg looked down at Sherlock in disbelief. "Under a railway arch on Pinchin Street."

"No, that shouldn't be."

"Look, it fits with the moniker… looked it up."

"It doesn't _fit_." Sherlock sneered. He stood up and loomed over Greg. "Why would four women, who went through great pains to get every murder historically accurate down to the brand of pills for a rare lung disease that are no longer in production, suddenly start mindlessly killing women?"

"Mindlessly? Nah, they were butchered for a reason, Sherlock." Greg stared Sherlock straight in the eye. They held each other's gaze for what felt like a lifetime. Sherlock's expression softened.

"You're right."

"I am?" Greg took a step back; he was quite literally taken aback.

"Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. The strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, all leading to most bizarre of results."

"What happened to there's nothing new under the sun?" I queried.

"Are your bags packed?" Sherlock turned to grab his violin case. I made way for my former bedroom where I kept an overnight bag packed with the essentials.

"Where are you going?" Greg looked highly concerned.

"It's high time we begin from the beginning."

"Durward Street?"

"Georgia." I spun on my heels. "Georgia?" Greg and I said in unison.

"Yes, we'll need to make some provisions first. Earliest non-stop flight out of Heathrow is at 9.05. We need to make haste! John... John?"

I was already three-quarters of the way to the bedroom.

"John! There are preparations that must be made."

"And you are perfectly capable of making them. I'm off to bed."

"There's plenty of time to sleep on the plane."

"There's plenty of time to sleep _in my bed_." Sherlock gave me a pleading look. His face seemed to say ' _Not in front of Lestrade'._ I looked over to Greg who looked eerily similar to his little girl, intently watching our interactions with an overwhelming amount of naivety. "All right" I conceded. "What do you need me to do?"

The last thing Greg needed to see was trouble in paradise when his world was falling apart at the seams. He needed to rest assured that Sherlock and I were on the case and everything was going to turn out peachy.


	7. Deliverance

Sherlock left Greg with the advice: "You know my methods, apply them." The detective inspector saw us to the airport and left a shaking mess. Time was of the essence; we had three days before the next scheduled murder and we had nothing to go on save a lone piece of mouldy paper and half a dozen dead hookers.

We flew into Atlanta on the earliest flight available, arriving at 1.30 Eastern time. I hadn't been able to sleep a wink on the plane for various reasons; one being Sherlock trying to sprawl out as much as he could. He was irritable and couldn't stand our elbows touching on the arm rest, but he could lay his head on my lap and contort his legs to piss off as many people as possible including the flight attendant.

She wasn't a fan of Sherlock roaming the cabin in sheer boredom. I constantly had to wrangle him in, keep his feet off the back of people's seats, and keep the conversation off how you can conceal an IED in a wristwatch. When we landed and exited the plane I was tempted to kiss solid ground.

The moment my bum hit the passenger seat in the rental car, I was asleep. From there, everything became a blur. I remember nothing of Clayton, Georgia. I only have flashes and small threads of memories from meeting with the Hillbillies.

I recall teeth being few and far between. One man sounded like he'd swallowed a banjo; it took me a while to figure out he was speaking French. Cajun. It was unlike anything I'd ever heard before. His voice had a hollow metal twang to it that sent an eerie chill up my spine.

Sherlock seemed to understand everything perfectly. I should have been on alert, they were _too_ hospitable, there was _too_ much laughter, and it was _too_ late when I realized I was the one they were laughing at.

Normally I can hold my liquor. Whether from genetics or general exposure, it normally takes a great deal of it to make me adequately impaired. However, the strongest liquor I had been exposed to had a meagre 60 percent alcohol content. Then my world was turned on its ear when I had my first and last moonshine peach.

Although it is physically impossible, I would say those peaches had an alcohol content well over 110 percent. I blacked out instantly and woke up in a tent in the woods with clothes that were definitely not mine, at least I'm fairly sure I never purchased an American confederate flag A-shirt and tattered acid washed jeans.

I rolled over moaning from the worst headache I have ever experienced. I was met with the sight of my tent-mate's bare ass that had imprinted on the left buttock an angry red hand-print. I lined up my hand and groaned when it matched up perfectly.

Sherlock and I didn't speak a word to one another as we packed up to leave. I felt terrible: not only did I have a horrendous hang over but I couldn't remember anything from that night. I could deduce that I did some unforgivable things to Sherlock's backside. I let Sherlock have his space and averted his gaze. I was thoroughly sickened with myself. We parted ways with the Hillbillies and were about to hit the road when a portly elderly woman stopped us. She refused to let us go until I took her parting gift: a jar of peaches.

We rode in silence for hours. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the road. He had to have been significantly less inebriated the night before. He likely remembered every detail. I didn't want to know where we were heading, what would be waiting for us when we got there, or what I was expected to do; I just wanted to know what I did.

We stopped in a small town in Alabama. Rainsville, population five thousand. My head was stinging ferociously and my breath reeked of tobacco. We had just parked outside a small brick church when I finally opened my mouth to speak.

"What... the hell... did I do last night?" I looked over at Sherlock who killed the engine and looked at me stoically. He handed over an envelope. I held it in my hands, looking it over. Sherlock pulled out a tin of Copenhagen. My stomach lurched; I swung the door open, held my head out of the car, and voided the contents of my stomach on to the pavement.

While I was bent over heaving, Sherlock slid the tin into my back pocket.

"There is a woman waiting for you inside, you are not to converse with her, no matter the circumstances." Sherlock gave me a light shove out the door. I stumbled out and near stepped in my own sick. I held my stomach as I tried to find my land-legs.

I entered the building to see a young woman in a yellow sun dress waiting at one of the pews. The naturally lighting from the large curved top windows cascaded down on her. Her platinum blonde hair glowed in the daylight, giving her an angelic appearance. I approached her and she turned to greet me. I held on to the back of the pew for support and swayed with the breeze. My head felt like it was fit to burst.

She held out her hand I withdrew the envelope and placed it in her outreached palm. She kept her palm supine. She beckoned her hand and cleared her throat. The only other item I had on me was the chewing tobacco. I slid it out of my back pocket and handed it over. She gave me a broad smile with her stained veneers. I couldn't help but think to myself ' _What girl chews tobacco?'_

She slid a long manicured fingernail under the envelope's flap and started tearing away to see inside. She hardly had slid the piece of brown paper out before she said, "It's fake." I had to bite my tongue rather hard to keep from shouting ' _What do you mean it's fake?'_ The letter in her hands was of course the one from Hell. My mind raced with questions ' _In what way is it fake? Is it not the real Jack the Ripper? Is it not the real letter from Hell? Why am I not allowed to speak to this women? Why am I dressed like I beat my wife for leisure?_

The young woman clicked her tongue and shook her head back and forth. "Ain't gonna be no use you talking with Brother Thomas. He'll say the same thang." She had a high pitched and nasal voice that seemed to draw on for ages. She wasn't in any hurry to answer my unspoken questions. "Still wanna see him?" I wasn't sure if non-verbal communication counted so I stared at her blankly. She took it as a cue that I was keen on seeing this Brother Thomas fellow.

I don't know exactly what I was expecting. Maybe some sort of vestments. I don't know, a chasuble? Brother Thomas looked like Colonel Sanders; with a white dress suit and a strange black bow-tie. He had a hideous comb-over to hide his thinning hair. His teeth were abnormally long and horse like. His smile was borderline demonic.

When he stepped toward me with an outreached hand, I noticed he was walking rather strange; he was walking on the balls of his feet like some sort of ungulate. I looked down at his shoes which appeared normal enough, other than the immaculate shine on them.

I wasn't sure if Sherlock meant I wasn't allowed to speak with anyone or whether it was just the girl I wasn't supposed to talk to. Brother Thomas took my hand in a bone crushing and slightly damp grip. His smile never faded.

"Was told, earley this morning, you'd be coming by. And look'eh here you are. You go on and have yourself a seat now." He pulled a plastic folding chair out of the corner of the room and motioned for me to sit. He dismissed the young woman who gave me one last look that suggested she thought I didn't know what I was in for. "You're not from around these parts." He stated, looking me over. "I'm from N'awlins myself. How's folks round here? They been good to ya?" I shifted uneasily in my seat. I couldn't help but squint at the man, the light casting through the windows was blinding. I tried not to make it look like I was glaring at him.

He withdrew the letter from the envelope and his smile faded momentarily, only to be broadened more dramatically. His eyes became more focused, his pupils constricted. I gulped in fear. "You got yourself a bona fide treasure here. This'n here's the real deal. How'd you come across such a thang?" I stared at him in wide eyed fear.

_But the woman just said it was a fake._

His foot tapped on the floor impatiently. Suddenly, his smile and eyes softened. "Right then, you come on by for dinner; bring the missus. We'll have us a talk bout this here letter."

The man escorted me to the door and saw me out. I noticed Sherlock wasn't in the driver's seat. I sat in the scorching sun with the car door open. I saw the blinds on one of the church's windows open a crack. I saw the young woman's eyes peering out at me.

I looked up at the car's ceiling and ignored her gaze. That's when I noticed a sticky note posted to the ceiling.

' _Bring the car to Broadway St'_

I ripped the note off the ceiling and looked it over. It was definitely Sherlock's handwriting. He knew I couldn't drive and that my mobile didn't have international coverage. I had a moment of panic. I got out of the car and walked to the driver's seat. I slid in and felt a rush of epinephrine.

_I can do this, I can do this, I can do this. Keys..._

I ripped the front of the car apart trying to find the damned keys. I turned around to find them sitting on the back seat. I grabbed them tightly, shoved the key into the ignition and turned it until the car roared to life. I couldn't figure out if the car was automatic or manual and I wasn't sure if it mattered. I looked down at my feet. I knew one pedal was the brakes and the other was the gas, though I wasn't certain which was which seeing as it was an American car and everything was back asswards. I gave each a tap with my foot and decided the one with less give had to be the brake. I placed a foot over each, just in case.

I licked my lips and took the car out of park. It started rolling forward and I panicked. I hit what I thought was the brakes and the car began accelerating. It felt like the car was careening out of control (at 20 miles per hour). I jerked the wheel to one side and turned on to the main street without indicating. Thank God the roads were empty.

I had no idea what side of the road I was supposed to be driving on as I swerved nervously, straddling the yellow lines. I had enough sense to turn on to Broadway which ran alongside the church. I saw an overly posh looking red head waiting by a bus stop and I slammed on the brakes twenty feet away and stopped the car in the middle of the road.

I tried turning off the engine but the key wouldn't turn, I lifted my foot off the brake and the car lurched forward, I slammed on it once more. Sherlock waltzed over unhurriedly, opened the driver side door, put the gear-shift into park, and cut the engine.

"You may lift your foot now."

I let out a sigh of relief when I lifted my foot and the car didn't take off. I got out of the car and my legs turned to jelly.

"What a rush." I said holding on to the door to steady myself. Sherlock just shook his head as he resumed his position in the driver seat.

We drove an hour and thirty minutes to Birmingham. I explained what the devil man had said. Sherlock informed me the man was once a prominent figure in the Westboro Baptist Church. He'd left because he no longer supported their ideals and instead became a coveted member of the Klu Klux Klan. I felt all the blood left my face.

"I... shook... the man's... hand..." I felt sick to my stomach. I noticed Sherlock snickering. "I'm glad you think it's so funny!"

"Oh John, if he only knew." He chuckled.

"Knew what?"

"Last night." Sherlock's eyes left the road for a moment to meet mine. "You don't remember?" My stomach did a small flip. Sherlock laughed heartily. "If he knew what we did last night, he wouldn't have shaken your hand so readily."

"What _did_ we do?" I was relieved to see Sherlock thought it was humorous and was willing to laugh about it.

"We made a pact. Never to speak of it again." Sherlock smiled.

"A pact!" I shouted indignantly. "I was drunk!"

"Yes... _very_." He laughed.

"What did I do?" I pleaded. "I have to know!"

"My word is my bond, John. I can never speak of it again."

"I woke up and your ass was glowing red! Now tell me, what did I do?"

"Oh, it's easy enough to deduce, isn't it?" I leaned back, covered my eyes with the heels of my hands, and groaned loudly.

"Would you please-"

"Oh, all right. While I was trying to put you to bed, after you passed out at the camp fire, you grabbed me, held me down, and insisted I squealed... like a pig..."

I drew up my shirt to cover my face. Sherlock burst into laughter. I wasn't amused. "Oh God, Sherlock."

"I told you. You said, never speak of it again."

I let my shirt go and it slid down my face slowly. "I cannot believe I'd do such a thing." I looked at him pitifully. "I love you, you know. Will you ever forgive me?"

"Not likely." He jeered. His voice wavered and he cracked a smile.

"What have I done?" I groaned into the palms of my hands. "Please tell me it wasn't your first time." Sherlock stared forward at the open road, his smile faded. I felt like slamming my head on the dash board. I scrubbed at my face with my finger tips, fighting back tears. "I can't even remember it! Any of it!" I cried. I made a small dog-like whimper.

"John, what does it matter?"

"A whole lot." I sobbed. It wasn't fair I couldn't remember it, that I didn't treat him well. I ruined _it_ for both of us.

"It wasn't _your_ first time. I don't see-"

"You're right... it wasn't. It was _yours_." I didn't even care that I had tears streaming down my face. "It was supposed to... to..." I stammered. I couldn't finish my sentence without sounding like an absolute sod. _It was supposed to be special._

"Could have been worse." Sherlock said with a sigh.

"No it couldn't have." I said looking up at him.

"You're right." Hilarity ensued. We both started laughing our heads off manically. My ribs ached and my eyes started watering once more. We didn't stop until we reached the hotel. We couldn't keep straight faces for more than two seconds without bursting out into roaring laughter. The lady at the front desk must have thought we were absolute loons.

I fell on to the bed and caught my breath, still breaking out into intermittent laughing fits, here and there. Sherlock and I laid side by side holding hands, giggling like school girls. Every time one of us tried to stop, the other would start laughing, and the vicious cycle would continue until we couldn't even remember what we were laughing about in the first place.

We finally settled down and I fell into a blissful sleep only to be awoken by a strange sensation. I shifted uneasily and felt a hand down my pants that wasn't my own. My eyes shot open and I brushed away the hand in a panic. I was somewhat relieved to see it was Sherlock and not some midnight molester.

"Sherlock! What in blazes do you think you're doing?" I shouted sitting straight up. " _We've discussed this."_ I hissed. Sherlock slid further under the sheets and feigned sleep. "Why can't you just touch me when I'm _awake_?" I said with a groan.

Sherlock's hand lifted out from under the bed sheets and dangled ominously in midair. I slapped at his wrist and he quickly recoiled it. I tried my best not to crack a smile but resistance was futile. He could be so silly at times.

"What is your fascination with me while I'm asleep?"

"Less... nagging..." Sherlock mumbled as he rolled away, drawing the covers up to his ears.

"Oh, thanks." I shifted myself in my pants and slid my jeans down my hips. Sherlock twisted slightly to see what I was doing. I brought the jeans all the way down and kicked them off. He rolled over just as I was removing the offensive A-shirt.

I slid down to lay flat on my back. Sherlock poked me hard in the sternum and held his finger in place. "Ow." I said making the appropriate facial expression to show it hurt.

"What do women say when they see you naked?"

"Put some clothes on." I chuckled. He pressed harder. "Jesus!" I pulled his hand away and held him by the wrist. "That hurts."

"Your pectorals are unevenly spaced."

"I'm broad shouldered." I said indignantly, covering up my chest with my free arm. I scowled at Sherlock pointedly. He often needed exaggerated facial expressions to understand emotions. The man could tell someone had committed a horrendous crime by the way they combed their hair with their fingers but I could spit fire and scream bloody murder and he wouldn't get that I was cross with him. It is entirely likely he doesn't care.

He twisted his wrist out of my grasp and grabbed me by the wrist instead. His rambunctiousness would be considered endearing possibly even cute by anyone who wasn't actively being molested by him.

I always thought I wanted someone to run their hands all over my body, but Sherlock did it with clinical and analytical finger tips, that poked and prodded in their investigation rather than caressed and embraced my form. His fingers were spider-like and made my skin crawl. I was overly sensitive to his touch. I preferred him grabbing and pulling at me; using his strong hands to work me over. Gentle didn't suit him. Even when he'd run his fingers through my hair, I enjoyed it when he raked his fingernails along my scalp, making a mess of my hair, rather than petting me like I was a well mannered dog.

Sherlock abruptly rolled over on top of me and barred down with all of his weight. I felt like my chest was crushing under the pressure, making it difficult to catch my breath. He slid down until we were nose to nose. He had on an impish smile. He held me by my wrists, pinning me to the bed.

"Take me _there_." He said with a low hoarse voice. I was too shocked to speak. My mind blanked as he ground against my inner thigh impatiently. His hands slid down to capture my forearms. He extended one long finger to ghost across the base of my palm; it has to be the most sensitive part of my body because I jerked and squirmed trying to break his grip. It sent ice cold shock waves down my spine and a throbbing heat to my groin.

He caught my lips with his and I could taste something sweet on his lips. I couldn't pin it at first, after my tongue swept into his mouth, I could taste it fully and I pushed him away.

"Peaches?" He laughed a low and throaty perverted laugh as he reclaimed my lips. He broke away and latched on to my neck. I shrugged up my shoulders. It is such an odd sensation, having one's neck sucked on. It's sloppy and wet, and awkward. I mean, what are you supposed to do while they're nipping and licking away at your jaw line?

It was strange not being inebriated while going at it with Sherlock. It was like an out of body experience; all of the actions I would normally be performing were being performed on me. Not to say it wasn't pleasurable, just _strange._

The scrub of another man's five o'clock shadow against your cheek. The taste of their cologne, bitter and heavy on your tongue. Their smell, so like your own. Their hands, so rough and strong: grabbing, pulling, and tearing away at the last thread of clothing that separates you from them. I'm not one for pain, but when it's riddled with pleasure, it confounds my senses and rouses my mind unlike anything else.

I was continuously jarred from my heightened state by the de-realisation of who was on top of me doing ungodly things to my body. Being with Sherlock brought a thrill back to sex that I hadn't felt since my teen years. The fear of being caught, the worry I wasn't performing up to par, and the naughty feeling that what I was doing was so dirty and wrong. It brought me back to when there was no rational reason to engage in sexual activities other than it felt so damned good.

Sherlock was becoming frustrated and impatient with the progress of things, which admittedly, I do love it when he drops all attempts at sensuality and goes straight for the kill. The build up itself can be excruciating painful. It's a great relief when he drops all barriers and his primal urges take over.

What baffled me was what he was waiting for, he was more than adequately aroused for intercourse but he continued to rut up against me, growling in sexual frustration. I was practically keening for it, lifting my hips up to show my intent, yet he refused to appease himself. Did I have to spell it out for him?

Just when I couldn't stand it a moment longer, he fell over beside me and let out an aggravated sigh. I was quick to draw up on to my elbows and look over at him. "What? What is it?" I asked through ragged breaths. I placed a hand as tenderly as possible on his crotch, I felt how much he was straining for release from his cloth prison. "Is it me?" Sherlock nodded tentatively. I felt my blood turn to ice. What could I have possibly done? I was eager and willing.

"I'm repulsive." He said with a groan as he rolled over on to his stomach and let out a dramatic sigh.

"What?" I asked with an indignant squeak. "You're the most attractive man I've ever met!"

"Your appendage would suggest otherwise."

I looked down and saw his point, I wasn't exactly rock hard. "Doesn't mean I wasn't enjoying it. I enjoy fooling around with you... a lot."

"Fooling around." He huffed.

"Well, if I said making love you'd likely slap me." I placed a hand on his back and rubbed gently. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock pressed up on to his elbows and glared at me. "You require massive amounts of alcohol, near lethal doses, to have your way with me." My mind went blank. Was he asking what he was really asking?

"Wait... what?" Sherlock grabbed a pillow and threw it on the floor.

"Damnit John! I'm tired of making the first move! You c-" And that's when I pounced.

I had been waiting far too long to bury myself in Sherlock's pert ass. Perversion aside, the man was actually asking for it, practically begging me. I feared I'd died or imagined it all. Fuck it all if I wasn't hard in a matter of seconds.

What I couldn't believe is he liked it, actually _liked_ it. Being dominated like that. Having me on top of him, sinking my teeth into his neck; it's what he wanted all along. Damnit, why was I so stupid? He was waiting for me this whole time. Who was giving who the cold shoulder?

Oh and if he wasn't a moaner. His low baritone sent a wave of vibrations all over my body. All my blood rushed to my nether regions. It took a tick to realize he was still fully clothed. Now wasn't a time to be prim and proper, fuck Spencer Hart, I was going to have at it with my flatmate and those buttons on his shirt were fit to burst anyhow.

He looked up at me in shock and I thought he was about to protest. I spit a button out on to the floor and made quick work of his trousers, which were also a smidgen tight on his thin frame. I even stripped him of his cashmere socks so there wasn't a stitch of clothing between us.

Just as I started running my hands through his thick curls and started nipping at his lower lip he pressed up on my chest with both hands.

"Get on with it." He said with a snarl. I grabbed him by his wrists and threw his hands against the bed above his head.

"I don't think you're in any position to make commands."

He whimpered and bit his bottom lip as he threw his head against the mattress. I ran my tongue down his chest and he let out a shrill cry, bucked up his hips, and hit me square in the ribs. I felt the wind knocked out of me; I coughed and sputtered, still holding his wrists firm. I looked down to see the damage. He'd shot a load halfway up his abdomen.

I couldn't help but chuckle. Sherlock's cheeks flushed a bright red. He gave me a pitiful look.

"What? It's not over!" He let out a sigh. "Look, you're not spent yet. Trust me?" He shook his head. I let out a laugh. "Good." I gave myself a couple rapid strokes. "Lube?" He looked down at the spunk on his belly. I grimaced at the thought, though I dreaded the alternative. I wasn't about to have my face and his ass become intimately acquainted, so I used his own semen to slick myself up.

I couldn't help but think this affair would have been loads easier with some liquid confidence. Before I had the chance for my nerves to get the better of me he caught me around the middle of my shaft and started guiding me in. I opened my mouth to object but then I sunk into that velvet heat and my brain forgot how to do... brain things...

I scrambled to catch hold of his shoulders. He gyrated his hips and my eyes rolled into the back of my head. It was all too much. He was writhing in discomfort. I could have told the genius that it hurt like hell to be penetrated like that. He was taking in shallow breaths and continued to rotate his hips.

I held him still as he caught his breath and continued to grimace. My leg had an involuntary spasm and he let out a yelp. I held him firm. "Is it too much?" I asked highly concerned.

" _Move."_ He rasped. I tried to comply but I'd forgotten how. My brain to dick correspondence was severely delayed. I was on at least twenty different levels of consciousness, trying to sort out all the bursts of sensations and hormones that flooded my brain.

Sherlock wanted to be taken to the mystical land of _there._ I knew exactly how to get _there_ but first there was overcoming the valley of pain and discomfort in blind search of the wall. So I began with shallow thrusts and reassuring kisses, intermingled with gentle stroking. His facial expressions lightened and his breathing became more regular.

The climb up the wall in itself is amazing but what waits at the summit is nothing short of miraculous. With each ratchet, the building tension becomes more unbearably pleasurable, and just when it feels like you can't take any more, one last shove sets you over. Making it over the wall feels like the heavens have opened up and there's a great sense of relief, like all your life has been building to that moment. There's a burst of dopamine that floods your brain and makes you positively euphoric. It's an absolute high and an addictive one at that.

Riding the pleasure wave soon becomes unbearable and your descent brings you back to the valley. Everything is overly sensitive and painful. It takes a skilled hand to bring a person back to the peak and an even more skilled person to know when to stop at the precise moment.

My forehead was beaded with sweat and I couldn't seem to bring myself there but Sherlock was beyond words, wailing and keening under me. I licked my lips and closed my eyes trying to feel every sensation in greater detail. I needed more, loads more. I was thrusting harder than I ever have before; I pined for release.

I let out a soft whimper of desperation. _Come on._ I willed myself. Sherlock's legs tightened against my thighs in a pincer grip. He was pulling away making the oddest gurgling shriek. He practically shot off me and lay on the bed panting. I could see his chest pulsating; he pressed up on to his elbows and looked faint.

" _Shower."_ He said as he wobbled back and forth. I pulled him up to sit and his legs shook violently as we headed to the bathroom. I stepped in the shower and turned on the tap. Sherlock fell on to his knees in front of me and grabbed my hips roughly. I jolted and took a step back. He drew me close and what he did with his tongue was indescribable.

I went blind from pleasure. I was making inhuman noises and I could barely stand on my own two feet. We'd been at it for ages and I wasn't sure I could keep it up any longer. I ran my hands through his hair and he looked up at me and... yeah... that was... God...

I had lasted so long, it'd been so long since I'd last got off, I really didn't stand a chance with his Cupid's bow lips wrapped around my prick. I regrettably came without fair warning. Sherlock spat out quite the load and I was still spurting and oozing when he pulled away. He ran his hand under the water and scrubbed at his lips. Sherlock fell back and sunk into the tub. He rested one leg on the edge of the tub and lifted his hips to get more comfortable. I stood in the steaming hot shower, letting the water cascade of my back to sooth my rapidly firing nerves. I was suddenly overwhelmed with drowsiness.

I brought a hand down to my cock. It was sore as hell and still half hard. I hissed in pain. "Aw, never again." I said rubbing myself gently. Sherlock grunted in response. "Was it good for you?" I looked down at him. He was splayed out and half asleep. "Need help up?" I turned off the water and opened the shower curtain. A plume of steam rose to the ceiling and hanged in the air like a cloud.

Sherlock had no intention of leaving that tub. I threw a towel on him for warmth and hobbled back into bed. I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow. I was well spent.

My eyes fluttered open. It was the ninth. I had a moment of panic. I sat up, ramrod straight. "Sherlock!" I threw the blankets off and ran to the bathroom to find him in the same position. "Sherlock! The ninth! The ninth of November! Lestrade! Miller's court!" I fell to my knees, leaned over the tub, and started shaking him by his shoulders. "We've overslept!"

Sherlock looked at me debauched and irate. "Go." He grunted.

"Sherlock!" I shouted. "Greg's in grave danger!"

"Fetch the paper." He said shifting slightly. He shut his eyes once more.

"The paper? The paper!"

"Yes." He said with a long drawl. I clenched my teeth.

"This had better be good." I stormed out, got dressed in a hurry, and went to the lobby to retrieve a newspaper. I grabbed their local Times and looked at the front page in shock. I grabbed a national paper and saw the same headline.

_Police Shoot Out on 13 Miller St. Leaves 3 Dead, Including 'Jane' the Ripper_

I rushed up the stairs with the paper in hand and started pounding on the door. "Sherlock! Open up! She's dead! The woman from Rainsville! She's-" Sherlock swung the door open. "Put some clothes on, for God's sake man!" Sherlock snarled his upper lip and hobbled towards the bed. I pointed out the woman's picture. "Look! The woman, the one from the church."

"Mm. Three down, one to go." Sherlock said rolling over.

"Three? What..." My mind skipped a thought when I saw Sherlock's bare bottom. I shook my head. I wasn't a pervert. "Sherlock, what do you mean three?"

"Inspector Dimmock pulled through with the leg."

"What leg?"

"From the nameless torso. Belonged to a Josephine Welts. Survived by her husband Henry Welts. The other torso, Maria Welts. Survived by her husband Henry Welts. The woman who was gunned down by police last night, Jane Welts. Survived by-"

"I'm sensing a theme here."

" _Good_ John." Sherlock rolled over on to his back and winced. He steepled his fingers and brought them to his chin.

"Who's the fourth?"

"The Coroner." Sherlock said with a sigh. "Mrs Jane Welts happened to be in the right place at the right time." He grimaced and shifted uncomfortably.

"This is good news right? Another of the Murdering Mistresses out of the way?"

"Jane Welts was an idiot, John. She was out on Miller's Street in the early light of morning expecting to meet with her sister, in good faith that no harm would come to her."

"Sister?"

"Sister wives."

"Mormons?"

"Who else?" Sherlock said with a small smirk. "The Welts sisters were excommunicated from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and disowned from their families, only to find their husband had committed adultery on several occasions."

"With a prostitute?"

"Several prostitutes."

"You'd think a man with four wives would be well occupied." I said with a laugh. "What possessed them to start their killing spree in London then?"

"Ah yes, Mr Welts was a bit of an Anglophile, constantly travelling abroad, leaving his wives at home to pursue his unworldly delights. The first to kill and be killed in return was Josephine. She visited her husband while he was on a trip and found him in the arms of another woman that just so happens matched the profile of Mary Ann Nicholas. She beat the woman to death while her husband fled the scene. She immediately called upon her sisters for help. It was the Coroner that came up with the elaborate cover-up. She had her butcher the woman just like the stories and drop her in the wee hours of the morning on Durward Street to be found by the police. While the first murder was a spectacular coincidence, the next three were planned far more carefully. Each of the sisters made a pact to seek revenge on their cheating husband by recreating the events played out 125 years before. All to throw off the trail so Josephine wouldn't be captured."

"What happened then? You said Josephine was murdered."

"Yes, by the Coroner if you remember. Her arms, legs, and head, removed with surgical precision and he body left to rot in a back alley because she couldn't make it to Whitehall that evening."

"Why not?"

"Maria refused to help any further."

"How do you know?"

"John, if you'd save you questions for the end."

"Yes, of course, sorry."

"Maria sent a letter to the Met, yet it was ignored as another hoax. I went looking for the 'Dear Boss' letter in Kew and that's when I received the anonymous tip that the letter from Hell, the real letter, was waiting for me in Ireland. I took one look at the paper, obviously aged in a damp cellar, nowhere near as old as the original, and written in blood. Human blood." I held back my barrage of questions. I was on edge waiting for him to explain. "When I ran the sample, it was an exact match with that of the torso off of Chiltern street."

"So that's why the woman knew the letter was a fake!" I blurted out. "But... why wasn't I allowed to speak with her?"

"She had, on her person, a fully-loaded Colt revolver. You were sent in as a red herring." I looked at him, mouth agape.

"You sent me in... unarmed... to deal with a serial killer?"

"She only murdered one person."

"She shot two police officers."

"After the fact." He said with a huff. "I knew she'd have to contact the Coroner about the letter and when she did, the police would be waiting."

"Why did you say that Lestrade was their next target then?"

"Oh that's right. 13 Miller's Court was going to be the Coroner's grand finale! The Pièce de résistance. Wiping out the Met's brightest and best, including our very own Detective Inspector Lestrade." He sounded oddly cheerful about the whole affair. "The building has been undergoing renovations over the past few days. Massive quantities of paint thinner have been transported into the building and lathered over the walls. The spark from one flame could have set the entire building ablaze in moments. That would have really put a hold on the investigation. Especially when we were looking for four separate women. It wouldn't surprise me if the Coroner was looking to do away with her sisters in the first place. She did a fine job covering their murders up, making it look like the torso killer."

"We have her on the run now."

"Didn't you read the paper, John? The Ripper has been caught!" he said sardonically.

"The _real_ one is out there you prat."

"And fortunately our jurisdiction knows no bounds."

"Well, you never liked to deal with those _law things_ anyhow." I laughed. I crawled into bed to lay beside him. "Where to then?"

"Bed."

"We're in bed." I pointed out.

His head flopped on to my bad shoulder and he let out a sigh as I let out a grunt. "You didn't mean what you said." He looked up at me with doe-eyes.

"What'd I say?"

"Never again?"

"Alright, maybe again." I said throwing my head back on to my pillow. Sherlock draped himself over me and just as I was about to nod off, I felt a hand down my pants, and it wasn't mine.


End file.
